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VOLUME I

25 Cents

Contents for June, 1923

Sixteen Thrilling Short Stories Two Complete Novelettes

Two Two-Part Stories Interesting, Odd and Weird Happenings

THE EVENING WOLVES- -.—— PAUL ELLSWORTH TRIEJI

An Exciting Tale of >V»ni Events

DESERT MADNESS

THE JAILER OF SOULS.
JACK 0’ MYSTERY.
OSIRIS __

An Exciting Tale of W
A Fanciful Novel of the

Powerful .Vi

!t of Sinister Madmen that Mounts to

HAROLD FREEMAN MINERS
HAMILTON CRAIGTE

Umax

edwin McLaren

THE WELL __

THE PHANTOM WOLFHOUND_

A Spook,j Yon by the A

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE—

THE MOON TERROR_-_-_— A. G. BIRCH

Final Thrilling Installment of the Mysterious Chinese Moon Worshipers

THE MAN THE LAW FORGOT_—_WALTER NOBLE BURUS

THE BLADE OF VENGEANCE—
THE GRAY DEATH-_

4 Ptnoorfulj Gripping Story IT

THE VOICE IN THE FOG—
THE INVISIBLE TERROR—

or of -Whispering iYirct"

.GEORGE WARBURTON LEWIS
-LOUAL B. SUGARMAN
HENRY LEVERAGE
. HUGH THOMASON :

THE MADMAN_

THE CHAIR_

THE CAULDRON ..
THE EYRIE__

ft Electrocution Vividly D

-DR. HARRY E. MERENESS :

—PRESTON LANGLEY HICKEY 1
——- -BY THE EDITOR 1

Magazine

-ADAM HULL SHIRK 55
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- ADELBERT KLINE 60

—HELEN ROWE HENZE 103
TARLETON COLLIER 105
— HERBERT HIPWELL 107

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WEIRD TALES

acted: with a bellow of rage he jerked
oat his own hand, which he had been
holding under his coat: swinging it up
he fired, then struck at the light globe
with the smoking barrel.

To the “Kid” there came the sensa¬
tion of suffocation and of darkness. His
own gun was out, but his enemy had
disappeared—and he himself * was
sprawled across the bed. That instant
of falling had not registered in his con¬
sciousness: he had been standing, a|nd
now he was down; that was all he knew.

And he was fighting for breath—a
great weight seemed to be crushing in
his chest. He raised his left hand and
gropingly explored tjie front of his
shirt: it was alreddy saturated, and from
a hole to the left of his breast bone more
blood was coming in a pulsing current

“The dirty dogl” muttered the
“Kid” thickly, pulling himself erect by
grasping the foot of the bed. “He’s
croaked me— ”

Then suddenly the “Kid’s” whirling
senses cleared. Billy the Strangler had
done for him; but he would send Billy
on ahead, to tell St. Peter he was com¬
ing! His yellow teeth came together.
He felt something welling up In his
throat and spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Not—much—time—left!” he mut¬
tered.

He dropped to his knees and for a
moment everything went blank. Then
he mastered himself, by a superhuman
effort: and began to crawl stealthily
along toward the dimly-lighted panel of
the door. The Strangler had run out

there after, firing—now, undoubtedly, he
was waiting till it should be safe for Him
to come back for his booty!

Slowly, the dying crook dragged him¬
self across to the door and out into the
hall. The training of a lifetime stood
him in good stead now: he was as sound¬
less as a shadow. He reached the top
of the stairs and paused, leaning for a
moment against the banisters—every¬
thing was going black before him. Then
he pulled himself together with a dis¬
regard for his own suffering that in a
better cause would have been heroic.

Inch by inch, he drew himself forward
till he was sitting on the top step of the
stair. He peered down into the lighted
rooms below. Ah! There he was! The
Strangler stood beyond the big chande¬
lier in the front room, the "Kid” could
see him plainly through an open door.
His face was smiling, the crooked smile

Resting his automatic across his bent
knees, the “Kid” took steady aim at the
man who had done for him.

“A little higher than the pockets!”
he told himself, repeating, the old gun¬
man’s formula for a killing shot.

Next moment the pistol roared ; and
the man standing down there in the
light jerked up his hands and staggered
backward. Greedily, the “Kid’s” fast
glazing eyes drank in every detail of
the Strangler’s agony. He knew what
that look meant—

Billy the Strangler began to pivot on
liis heels, staring with blind eyes into

“Where is het” he cried. “Damn
your soul and body—you—”

He pitched forward to his face. And
the “Kid,” leaning peacefully back, felt
himself snatched up into a great red
cloud that has descended out of the roof

TN AN upper room in the house of Ah
Wing, the Chinaman sat at an in¬
strument that resembled a telephone
switchboard. There were on its surface
eight little globes, each with a plug
socket beneath.

Ah Wing had an operator’s head-piece
in position, and he seemed to be listen¬
ing attentively to something that came to
him over the wires.

There had been voices, loud and angry.
He. heard the Strangler denouncing the
“Kid.” Then came the shot—and
silence.

Ah Wing waited an appreciable time,
then shifted the plug from socket to
socket. Not a sound from any of the
rooms in the distant cottage. He re¬
turned the plug to its central position
and waited.

Presently another shot sounded, and a
scream. He heard the Strangler curse
bis enemy.

Without a word, Ah Wing removed
the head-piece and glanced up at a chart
fastened to the wall before him. It con-

of which a black cross had been inscribed.

Now he picked up a pencil and filled
in two additional crosses.

There were but two of the Wolves left!

This Fascinating Story Has An Amazing Climax. It Will Be Concluded in the Next
Issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell Your Newsdealer To Reserve Your. Copy.

Snatched from the Grave, Woman Tells of Death

\ WEIRD adventure b

the land of the living instead of the spirit world. After her
physician had pronounced her dead, her life was restored by
an injection of adrenalin, administered by Dr. W. A. GerTie.

To all outward appearance, she was quite dead. There
was no indication of breathing or heart action. Prayers for
the dead were started in the bed chamber where her body
lay.

Then Dr. Gerrie injected the gland extract in her heart,
and after several days she showed signs of returning life.
Upon regaining consciousness, she was confused and puz¬
zled, uncertain, it seemed, whether she was alive or dead.
Later she described her strange experience.

“I could feel death pulling me,” she said. "I was slipping.
I tried to find something to hold to, but could not. I felt far

“I had just a few minutes. I must straighten out in bed.
I must cross my hands on my breast. I must smile. My
children must know that I died in peace. Prom far away
there seemed to be people around me. But their voices grew
more distant.

“Then there seemed to come to me the comforting words
of a priest. They added to my peace and content. I was
ready for death. I smiled, I think. I know I wanted to. It
was the last thing I remember.”

And then, days after the first injection of adrenalin, the
“dead” woman regained consciousness. It was four o’clock
in the afternoon.

“I shall never forget that hour,” she said. “I heard the
clock strike four times—and I realized I was a living person
in a living world.”

A Fanciful Novel of the Red Desert
Complete In This Issue

DESERT MADNESS

CHAPTER ONE “Well, Archibald, it Ipofes interesting “You don’t <

THE GIRL AND THE HANDCUFFS "^^K^piy. Archibald

F OR A LONG- MOMENT the man was asleep!. Immediately upon the halt- the last hundred years, more or less,
surveyed with tired eyes the queer ing of the little cavalcade the burro had we’ve been strolling around this accursed
cleft in the canon wall and the sunk into a state of dejection more desert, and we have made the acquaint-
beaten trail that led into it. apathetic than usual and had promptly ance of a few cottontail rabbits, one or

Finally he addressed the nearest of his gone to sleep. In fact, it is doubtful if two coyotes, and a rattlesnake. The rub-
two burros in a listless, half humorous Archibald had not been asleep the bits showed their distaste for our society
voice: greater part of the afternoon. by running away; the coyotes did noth.

Almost opposite where the girl had
been chained the tiny trickle of water
had formed a miniature pool in the
rooks. Seizing a tin cup from his camp
outfit, Ross hurried to this pool, scooped

kneeling at .the girl’s side.

Dipping his fingers in the water, he
Sicked it across her face, then carefully
bathed her forehead, and then set to
chafing her wrists.

It was fully ten minutes before the
girl showed any evidence of returning
consciousness. Then her eyelids began
to flutter. Finally she sighed deeply,
and her eyes slowly opened.

Stanley Ross thought he had never
seen such a look of abject terror as now
appeared in the girl’s eyes. It was as
though she had just awakened from a
terrible dream and was still laboring un¬
der its terrorizing influence. Such a look
might haye appeared in the eyes of a
slave girl when Nero ruled in Rome.

For a moment, consciousness battled
with that nightmare that had been seeth¬
ing through the girl’s brain and finally
won. Her eyes opened wide. A half
smile slowly crossed her face. Whatever
might have inspired her terror, the girl
evidently recognized in Ross a friend.

Her lips, dry and parched, moved with
difficulty, but Ross saw that they framed
the word “Water!”

Lifting her head, he dampened the
girl’s lips from the cup and then al¬
lowed her to drink her fill. But weak¬
ness still held sway over her body, and
she sank back on the blankets, exhausted.
Her eyes closed again.

“Don’t try to talk,” advised Ross.
“You just lie there and rest until I fin
something for you. Then you can tell
me about this thing.”

For once in his life, Ross was glad that
he had taken another man’s advice.
When he had started his desert pilgrim¬
age an old prospector had advised him
to include a few cans of soup in his out¬
fit Ross had demurred, seeing no use
in packing superfluous weight, but the
old desert rat had insisted.

Ross had included the soup. So far,
he had had no use for it, but now it was
to show its worth.

Collecting a few dry sticks from the
stubby, willows that grew around the
pool, Ross soon had a tiny fire going.
Opening a can of soup, he heated it over
the fire and carried a cup of it to the
•girl.

“Oh, that’s so good!” she murmured
after she had drained the cup. “Thank

“Do you feel like talking»” asked
Ross.

DESERT MADNESS

For a moment the girl regarded him
with frank eyes. Then she shook her
head wearily.

“Not—not just yet—please. I’m—so
—tired.” She sank back onto the
blankets.

Realizing that, for the present, rest
was the most important thing for her,
Ross covered the girl with a blanket and
set about his camp duties.

He' finished unpacking his burros and
turned them loose to pick at the scanty
tufts of grass that grew along the seep¬
ing stream. This done, he set about pre¬
paring his own meal.

It was already dusk, and by the time
he had cooked and eaten his supper dark¬
ness had settled down over the little
canon. Washing his few dishes in the
pool, Ross set them aside and turned his
attention to finding enough firewood to
keep the fire going.

In the darkness this was somewhat of
a task, and Ross was absent from the
camp for some little time. When he re¬
turned he saw that His strange guest had
evidently fallen asleep.

Ross threw some wood on the fire and
sat down with his back against a rock.
Filling his pipe, he lighted it and leaned
back to contemplate the events of the
afternoon and evening.

His first mental reaction on finding the
girl had been one of intense rage that
any one, no matter what the cause or con¬
ditions, could be so utterly inhuman as
to perpetrate such an act. He was still
angry now, but he had cooled off to the
extent that he could consider (he affair

There seemed to be no off-hand ex¬
planation whatever. As far as Ross
knew, there was no human habitation in
all this desert waste, yet this trail up the
little canon had been used frequently and
recently, so somewhere up the winding
trail must lie a solution to the mystery.
But what it could be, or whether he
oould ever solve it, Ross could not im-

The whole affair was grotesque, bi¬
zarre. Why any one should chain a
young girl to a rock wall in the midst of
a heat-seorohed desert was utterly incom¬
prehensible. The girl was not gross or
criminal-looking. On the contrary, she
was pretty, delicate, and obviously re¬
fined. Her clothes bespoke a far differ¬
ent environment. How any one could be
so inhuman as to subject her to such
treatment was unfathomable.

Sitting there, smoking and watching
the girl', muffing the strangeness of tile
affair over in his mind, Ross could offer
himself no explanation. The only thing
to do, apparently, was to wait for the

21

girl to awaken and then wait for her to

At any rate, the adventure which he
had craved seemed to be at hand. Where
it would lead him he had no idea*

The fire gradually burned low. The
girl stept on. Ross removed the pipe
from his mouth. His head nodded. In
half an hour the campfire had wasted
to an ember.

The man’s head had sunk forward
onto his breast; his body had relaxed
comfortably against its support. He,
too, was asleep.

Hours crept by. . . .

With a start, Ross awoke. The first
faint glow of dawn was creeping down
into the little canon. It was morning.

Sheepishly, Ross rubbed his eyes,
aware that he had allowed the healthy
fatigue of a day in the desert to cpn-
quer His senses and bring sleep when he
had intended to watch throughout the
night.

Gradually the events of the evening
before came back to him, and he looked
across to where he had wrapped the girl
in his blankets. The bed was empty!

The girl was gone!

CHAPTER THREE

ADVENTURE WITH A VENGE¬
ANCE

TN AN INSTANT Ross was on his feet,
-*■ the sleep fog automatically cleared

One glance was enough. The dawn
was far enough advanced so that he

It was patent that the girl had vanished
during the darkness.

The whole affair was so utterly im¬
possible, so unreal, so like an Arabian
Nights adventure, that Ross was almost
prone to believe that it had been merely
a dream, a desert hallucination. Not
until his eyes again sought the canon
wall did he convince himself that he had

There oould be no denying his eyes,
though. There were the four heavy
chains fastened to the canon wall, and
there were the four broken shackles,
mute evidence that he had stumbled onto
a situation as exotic as one of the desert’s
own mirages.

No, there could be no question that the
girl had actually existed. Nor could
there be any question that she had dis¬
appeared. The only living thing in sight
was Archibald, who stood with head
bowed over the dead embers of last
night’s fire in his usual state of ignoble
dejection.

Dubiously, he surveyed the food. The
words of the Chinese came back to. him,
“Missee say Wong flix good dlinner.”

So the girl knew that he was a captive.
Well, all he could do whs wait But who
was shet And what did his imprison¬
ment meant

In the meantime there was no reason
for wasting a good dinner. Boss was
hungry, and in twenty minutes the last
scrap of food had disappeared.

Settling back in his chair, he again
filled his pipe and prepared to await
developments with as good grace as pos¬
it was hours later that he heard foot-

from studded shirt to patent-leather

He was surprised to find that the
clothes fit him well. The pumps were a
trifle tight and the suit was a bit snug,
but a half hour later, when he surveyed
himself in the long pier glass, he was
well satisfied.

“All right, keeper, let’s be on onr way.
I’m curious,” he said.

His captor conducted him down the
long veranda, and a moment later he was
ushered into a large room where a table
was laid for dinner.

CHAPTER FOUR
BOSS IS INVITED TO DINE
T» OSS heard a key in the look, and a
*'• moment later the heavy door swung
open. It was the gunman again. He was
evidently not mindful to take any
chances with his prisoner, for he again
was holding his revolver ready.

“Come on out!’.’ he barked, motioning
with the gun for Boss to step out of the
room. ‘ ‘ Tha big boss wants ya. ’ ’

“Oh, he does!’’ returned Ross. “May¬
be 111 find out now what all this is

“Ton’ll find out all right. Mebbe find
out more’n ya want.”

“You know, I don’t think I’m going
to like you at alL I shouldn’t be sur¬
prised if I had serious trouble with you
yet But lead on!”

Boss’s persiflage was far from pleas,
ing to the gunman. He glared malevol¬
ently at Boss for a moment, as if half
minded to inflict physical punishment,
finally thought better of it, and then
jerked out, “I ain’t leadin’; I’m follow¬
in’. Git movinM”

Ross was conducted to the largest of
the group of ’dobe buildings; evidently
used as a dwelling, and was ushered di¬
rectly into a bedroom.

He had expected anything except what
he now saw. The room was such as might
have been found in a brown-stone man¬
sion on Fifth Avenue. The floor was
covered with a deep soft rug. There
was a niahogany bed, with a spotless
white spread, and a dressing-table of
the same wood To one side of the latter
stood a full-length plate mirror.

“The big.boss said ya was to shave,
an’ then ya was ta dress fer dinner.
Toll find all tha togs there on that bed. ’ ’
The gunman directed Boss’s attention to
the bed with a flourish of his gun.

Boss looked. The garments on the bed
comprised a complete evening outfit,

CHAPTER FIVE
A STRANGE DINNER
T5T THIS TIME Bobs was prepared
" for almost anything, yet the room
that he now stepped into was even more
astounding than the bedroom.

In the center stood a table arranged
for four. It fairly' sparkled with glass¬
ware, silver and spotless linen. At one
side of the room stood a huge buffet. Its
top was Well covered with glasses, liquor
shakers and and sundry bottles, the con¬
tents of which were obvious.

The occupants of the room chiefly
held his attention, though, They were
three, two men and a woman. Here, at
last, he was to know the meaning of the
strange events of the preceding twenty-
four hours.

The two men were standing close to¬
gether and had evidently been convers¬
ing. Both were in faultless evening
dress. The girl stood apart; aloof, so it
seemed. Despite her evening dress. Boss
instantly recognized her as the girl he
had found in the canon.

One of the men was young and exceed¬
ingly well built. His wide, heavily
muscled shoulders suggested out-of-the-
ordinary strength. His hair Was wiry
and red; its color was amply reflected in
his ruddy complexion. The face was
strong and would have been attractive
but for one feature—the eyes. The eyes
were small, deep-set, and far too close
together. They might have been said to
be piggish. The dull glint in them was
not reassuring. Ross knew at once that
he did not like this man.

It was the second of the two men, how¬
ever, who was really striking. He was,
in fact, an amazing figure. His stature
was above the average height, over six
feet, and he was thin to emacis “
thought he had never seen s<
yet so slender a man. He w

pair of piercing black eyes. It was the
eyes that struck instant attention. Their
everchanging lights fairly gleamed. They
seemed to be alive with a thousand fires.

The impression was instantly regis¬
tered with Ross that here was a man who
was possessed of unusual personal power,
or who was stark mad. Those eyes could
allow of no other conclusion.

As Boss was ushered into the room it
was this strange individual who instant¬
ly stepped forward.

“Ah, our guest has arrived,” he said.
His voice was soft as velvet, yet it car¬
ried an irritating quality that was thin-
edged and biting, and scarcely concealed.
“Step right up, Mr. Warifig; dinner will
be served at once. Wong, the wine.”

From somewhere the Chinese, Wong,
had glided forth and, drawing out a
chair, indicated Boss’s place at the table.
Immediately he had filled the glasses
with a sparkling liquid. Ross recognized
it as champagne.

There was no chance to reply. In fact,
Boss was too bewildered to think of any¬
thing adequate to say. In a moment he
would be himself again, but just now
his wits were all at cross purposes.

As the elderly man greeted Ross, the
girl and younger man took their places
at the table as if they had only been
wailing his arrival to proceed with the
meal. As Ross stepped forward, at the
servant’s indication, his host readied out
and lifted the wine glass at Bis plate.

“We will drink to the health of our
guest,” he said evenly.

Automatically, Ross lifted his glass.
The others did likewise. For an instant
the four glasses were held aloft, the
lights playing on their sparkling depths.
Then the elderly man turned to Boss
with a rather elaborate low bow and said
in a voice that was like gray steel:

“Mr. Waring, allow us to drink to

your most excellent good health-:-

for tomorrow you hang!”

The words were like an icy blast Dp
to that moment the whole affair had been
rather ludicrous to Ross. He had real¬
ized that he was in danger at times, but
that this danger would involve the loss
of his life he had not for a moment
imagined.

Now he realized that his very life was
at stake; more than that, unless he could
find some way to extract himself from
his predicament, that he was sure to
forfeit it. There could be no denying
the import of the toast. Ross did not
know why, but he did know that this tall,
lean stranger with the mad eyes meant
to kill him as sure as he stood there.

For a moment, the young New Yorker
lost his complacency. He stood with the
glass phiSed in his hand, his brain whirl-

“Good-night, Mr. Ward. Thank you
for a moat excellent dinner and a most
entertaining evening. And let me assure
you that you will not hang me in the
morning.”’

Turning on his heel, Boss passed out
of the room.

CHAPTER SIX
A FORLORN HOPE
YT/HEN BOSS stepped out into the
' ' darkness his first thought was that
he would make a dash for liberty. This
hope died almost before it was bom,
though, for he felt the muzzle of a revol¬
ver pressed close to his ribs and Garfin’s
rasping voice growled into his ear:

“Make just one move fer a break an’
I’ll plug ya. The boss says he’s goin’
to hang ya in the morning, but I’d like

Boss knew that Garfin was not indulg¬
ing in idle words. The gunman would
gladly kill him. Then, too, out in the
shadows another form kept them close
company. He knew this was Poole and
that should he succeed in worsting Gar-
fin his chance of escaping the second
gunman’s bullets was very remote. No,
the time was not yet.

The, three trudged back to Ross’s one-
room prison, and it was only a minnte or
two until the door had slammed on him,
the bolt had fallen into place and the
lock snapped its vicious message.

He was once more a prisoner.

Ross sought in the darkness for the
crude chair and threw himself down into
it He knew that for the time being
there was no chance of escape, so he
gave himself up momentarily to a con¬
templation of his plight.

. Who was this strange girl whom he
had rescued, only to have her vanish
into the night T Why had she not spoken
tonight 1 Why had she given him no
hint of action? Who was Beebe, that
he would accept a betrothal which was
obviously odious to the girl? And, lastly,
who was Ward with his mad eyes?

Who was Waring, and what had he
done to merit such malicious vengeance
on the part'of Ward?

These and many other questions Boss
asked himself, but he had no satisfactory
answer to any one of them. Only a
jumble of baffling mystery presented it¬
self. His brain seethed with impossible
solutions, but he had to admit that act¬
ually he was completely at sea.

Only a few facts stood out which could
be accepted as a basis on which to work.

He, Boss, had been taken for another
mau, Waring by name. Ward evidently
hated faring intensely and was deter¬
mined to put him to death for a wrong,

either fancied or real. There could be
no doubt, too, that Ward was, in a de¬
gree, insane.

What part Beebe was playing Boss
could not determine, beyond the facts
that he was in favor with Ward and
that he wanted the girl and would take
her on whatever terms he could get her.

The girl was obviously in great peril.
It could be seen that she hated Beebe,
but at the same time was powerless to
resist any order of her uncle. Boss could
readily see that she was in a position
where death might well be preferable to
what she was facing.

And, undeniably, there was the fact

the morning unless ho could devise some
■way out of his dilemma.

The night was far gone when he had
finished considering these things. It was
then that a plan of action first suggested
itself to him. As it matured in his mind
he realized that it was a forlorn hope;
but his'circumstances were so utterly
desperate that there seemed nothing to
do but give it a trial. He knew that its
success would depend entirely on the
element of surprise.

Having once settled in his mind what
he should do, Boss threw himself down
on the crude table and was soon sound

It was hardly daylight when he awoke,
but he did not allow himself to drop back
to sleep again. He was going to be

It was fully three hours later that he
heard approaching footsteps. Slipping
quietly across the room. Boss flattened
himself against the wall beside the door

The footsteps drew nearer and nearer.
A key grated in the lock. It clicked.
The bolt was raised. Slowly the door
Swung on its hinges.

Like a flash, Boss slipped from his
hiding-place and darted through the
doorway. The only human within sight
was Garfin. Like a mad thunderbolt
Boss bore down upon him.

Taken by surprise, Garfin barely had
time to fire before Boss was upon
him. Too startled to take definite aim,
his bullet went wild. With a force that
was terrific Boss struck him with the
full impact of his body. The two went
down in a tanglgd heap. Garfin’s gun
was knocked from his grasp and went
spinning a dozen feet away.

Garfin was not without courage of a
kind, but all his life he had depended
on a gun to enforce his arguments.
Physical combat had not been one of bis
long suits, and now he found himself no
match for his younger antagonist

Stan Boss was far from a weakling
physically: Long months afoot in the
desert had made him as hard as nails.
Not so long ago he had been known as a
football player of some note. Now he
used that knowledge of rough-and-
tumble combat to the fullest extent.

Taking Garfin by surprise, Boas had
the initial advantage, and when the two
went down he was on top. Striking, kick¬
ing, using the crushing force of his body,
he went at the gunman in a demoniacal

though he would beat his enemy into
insensibility before he could offer any
material resistance.

But Garfin was fighting for his life
and he knew it. He was not to be van¬
quished so easily. In a moment the two
men were threshing and rolling on the
ground in a fierce struggle.

Youth, however, was not to be denied.
Those sledge-hammer blows were having
a telling effect. Garfin was weakening.
Gradually Boss was wearing him down.

Boss sought the throat of his enemy.
Garfin’s breath came in gasps. His eyes
were bulging. Gradually Ross brought
his knee up until it pressed into Garfin’s
stomach. A final effort would end the
struggle. Slowly Garfin’s head bent
backward. Then—

A crashing, blinding blow caught Boss
on his head. For a brief instant a mil¬
lion fires flamed before his eyes. Then
utter blackness.

He slumped forward across the body
of his antagonist

CHAPTER SEVEN
WONG INTERVENES
XXfHEN ROSS returned to consoious-

’ • ness it was with a sense of bewil¬
derment. His head -seemed alive with
shooting pains: his eyes burned in¬
tensely; his body was sore and stiff.

Gradually he fought the fog from his
brain and opened his eyes. He was
dimly aware that he was back in his
prison room, stretched out on the table.
Painfully he sat up.

And then he saw that he was not alone.
There was another person in the room.
As his eyes pierced the semi-gloom he
was aware that the man before him was
Arthur Ward.

Instantly his brain cleared, and he
swung himself around to face his jailor.

Ward was standing in the center of
the room, his feet wide apart, his hands
behind his back. A sardonic smile dis¬
figured his face

“Well,” he inquired, “so you decided
not to die?”

“Yes, I decided not to die,” said Boss.
“I might remind you, too, that it iB no

WEIRD TALES

longer morning and I have not been

“No, and you’re not going to be,
either. I have prepared a much more
pleaaant death for you.”

“Don’t waste your thanks,” replied
Ward. “Before you’re through you’ll
be far from thanking me. You Bee, War¬
ing, yonr little outbreak this morning
set me to thinking. If you had taken

and it would all be over now. But you
had to try to eseape and that set me to

for you. It would be over too quickly.
There would be no time for reflection.
So I devised something really fitting for

While Ward was speaking the man
Poole had entered, carrying a wooden
box which he deposited gingerly in one
corner and then quickly withdrew. He

“Yes, Waring,” Ward went on, “I’ve
planned a death for you that I like much

rotten soul to eternity,” he snarled,
“you’ll know what real torture is before
you go outl”

With a sudden movement, he whirled,
kicked the lid from the box, darted
through the doorway, and had crashed
the door shut before Ross fairly real¬
ized what he was doing.

Half bewildered, it was a moment be¬
fore he could attach any meaning to
Ward’s action. Then it dawned on him
that there was a deep significance to the
box which Poole had brought in. Some
sinister portent lay in that box of wood.

Fascinated, Ross sat watching the box,
realizing that it held his fate, scarce
knowing what to expect, and certainly
not expecting what developed.

For a long minute nothing happened.
Ross grew nervous with the strain. Then
a faint buzzing came from the box.
Silence. Again came that strange Bound.
And again. A slithering rustle as of
stiff silk rubbed together.

And then Ross’s scalp prickled with
horror and his blood fairly fyoze in his
veins, for over the edge of the box ap¬
peared a hideous, swaying head! There
came a second I A third! And then a
fourth!

They were huge diamond-back rattle-

As Ross recognized the big diamond-
backs he knew instantly that he was
trapped. To step down onto the floor
meant death, a horrible, grewsome death.

Instinctively, he drew his feet up onto
the table as the big reptiles left the box,
one by one. He counted eight in all.

Ross gave himself up to black despair.
Down there on the floor awaited a fate
too hideous for words. . . .

TT MUST have been fully two hours
later, and dusk was already settling
down and darkening the room, when
Ross heard footsteps.

They, approached his prison. For a
moment his heart leaped within him at
the possibility of rescue. But the door
did ndt open. Instead, he heard the
taunting voice' of Ward from outside:

“Oh, you’re safe enough so far, War¬
ing. They can’t get yon as long as you
stay on that table. I planned that. Was¬
n’t it kind of me to be so thoughtful t
But there won’t be any food and there
won’t be any water, and all the time
you’ll be going through hell. I planned
that, too. And then there’ll come a
time when you can’t stand it any longer.
You’ll either fall from the table from
weakness, or you’ll go mad and step
down onto the floor. They’ll always be
waiting, Waring. And then they’ll get
you, damn you!” The voice, rising to a
shrill crescendo of passion, ended in a
burst of wild maniacal laughter.

Receding footsteps told him that
Ward had gone away.

As the gloom deepened into utter dark¬
ness it seemed to Ross that he would go
mad. His brain seethed with wild im¬
pulses. A hundred times he pictured
himself lying there on the floor, a
bloated, blackened thing. A hundred
times he went through death. Only that
hope which “springs eternal” kept him
from stepping down onto the floor and
making an end of it.

Gradually Ross quieted. He finally
settled back against the wall in a state
of apathy, little knowing or little caring
when the end would come.

An hour passed.

Suddenly Ross became aware of an
unusual sound. From somewhere in back

hardly to be heard. Stealthily, he raised
himself to the height of the barred win¬
dow and peered into the darkness.

Dimly he could make out a head out¬
lined against the sky. A low, whispered
voice spoke:

"You taleel”

Unmistakably it was the voice of
Wong. There was a grating sound as of
something being passed between the bars.

Robs reached out his hand and it
closed over cold steel.

An automatic!

"You taket” again came the whis-

This time Ross found his hand closing
over a cartridge belt

“Me bring Ga’fin. You shoot!”

Like a ghost, the form at the window
was gone without a sound.

With the feel of that cold steel in his
hand Boss’s spirits rose like a tide. All
his waning confidence returned. He was
instantly his own man again, confident,
cool, without fear.

Quickly he buckled the belt around
his waist With sure fingers, he made
certain that the gun was loaded. Slipping
off the safety, he knelt on the table, fac¬
ing the door, and waited.

Ross did not know whether he would
ever leave that room alive, but he did
know that the first men to open the door

A RTHUR WARD stood with his back
to the big living-room fire, his feet
wide apart, hands crossed behind his
back, head lowered, eyes peering from
beneath shaggy brows. It was a charac¬
teristic attitude and one which peculiarly
expressed the man’s calculated cruelty.

Beebe was seated on the wide fireplace
bench, his feet stretched far in front of
him. He was slowly smoking, his whole
sprawling attitude one of indolent ap¬
proval. Things were shaping them¬
selves quite to the liking of Larson
Beebe.

The girl, Virginia, was seated in a
chair somewhat in front of her uncle.
The wild look of her eyes and her agi¬
tated faee told that she was going
through an ordeal that was breaking her
bit by bit.

“But, Uncle Arthur,” she burst out,
“surely you can’t mean to do this terri¬
ble thing. Why, I don’t love Mr. Beebe
at alL I scarcely know him, and 1 don’t
want to marry anyone.”

“My dear niece,” replied Ward even¬
ly, “love has no part in my scheme of
things. Hate rules the world, and hate
is my creed. Love makes people soft and
indolent Hate is the great inspirator.
Hate makes the world go ’round.

“Sentiment has no place whatever in
this marriage. It is entirely a marriage
of convenience. Your personal inclina¬
tions have no weight whatever. I wish
you to marry Beebe: therefore you will

The girl’s color had heightened as she
listened to her uncle’s ultimatum. Ashe
finished, a grim expression of defiance
settled on his face.

“Well, I won’t!” she answered
crisply.

“As you will, Virginia, but if you do
not consent to marry Beebe within
twenty-four hours I shall leave you here
alone with him. I imagine after a couple

WEIRD TALES

time my uncle, Arthur Wasd, was one
of the biggest operators in Wall Street.
All his life he has been a very peculiar
man; eccentric; always doing queer
things for which there seemed no ex¬
planation, and never taking any one into
his confidence.

“In the Street he was known as a
plunger. He made a great deal of
money. Just how much I have no idea
beyond the fact that he was always very
generous with my mother, his sister. But
at one time he must have been very
wealthy indeed.

“Seven years ago it seems that he
plunged too heavily and got caught. His
fortune was practically wiped out. When
everything was settled up he was still
a wealthy man—that is, he was probably
worth a half million dollars—but the
great bulk of his fortune was gone.

“He fought fiercely to keep from go¬
ing under. There were days and nights
at a time when I don’t think he slept at
all. He was like a wild man, but the

and hew° 880 m ^

st v_____„—„ „

. For weeks he acted very
queer. Finally he seemed to get a hold
on himself and he appeared rational.

“He settled up his business, and then
suddenly disappeared. He left no word
where he was going—just dropped out
of sight. That was seven years ago, and
for two years we heard nothing from
him. Five years ago I got a letter from
him asking me to visit him here. I came
and found things just about as you see

“He seemed perfectly rational and
contented. Of course, he was queer and
erratic, but he had always been that. He
seemed to have forgotten Wall Street en¬
tirely and spent most of his time making
a collection of the accoutrements of
horse aud man of the old-time West I
doubt if there is a finer collection in
existence.

“He did a lot of entertaining, too, for
his old friends, inviting them out for
long visits. Here .his eccentricity
cropped out, for he insisted on going to
great lengths to have everything just
as it would be in New York. There must
be fifteen dress suits in the house, and
he always asked every one to dress for
dinner. He imported wines and foods.
Wong has been with him ever since he
has been here and he is an excellent cook.

“I came out every year. He was al¬
ways very kind to me and has made
every effort to entertain me. I thought
he acted a little more queer each year,
and I often wondered if he was not a
little unbalanced mentally.

“When I came out this year there was
a great change. I saw at once that he
was quite mad. He imagined that he was
being persecuted by the Warings, and
kept PooI4 and Garfin, New York gun¬
men, to protect hi m . The Warings were
the people who engineered his defeat in
Wall Street, and Unde Arthur hated
them intensely. He not only imagined
they were persecuting him, but he also
imagined that the younger Waring,

d to be an obses¬

sion with him.

“When I got here I found that Larson
Beebe was Uncle Arthur’s guest. I had
met Mr. Beebe in New York several
times, and I detested, him. I had good
reason to. Ha—well, I have always de¬
spised him.

“Just what his hold or influence on
Uncle Arthur was I haven’t the slightest
idea, but I had hardly arrived before
Uncle Arthur began to insist that I

“Of course, I refused, and it was then
that Uncle Arthur’s insanity came to the
surface. He had always been kindness
itself, but now he suddenly became the
very incarnation of cruelty. While there
was no question but that he was entirely
mad, yet in his madness his brain was
as shrewd and cunning as ever.

“When I refused to marry Beebe he
began to practice his cruelties on me in
an effort to break my will. I was utter¬
ly at his mercy, for there was no way
that I could escape. All I could do was

“The culmination of his indignities
was to chain me to the rocks where you
found me. Whether he would have left
me there till I was dead I hardly know,
but I think not. His brain was so un¬
balanced that it would be hard to tell.

“I ran away that night because I knew
he would kill you if he found you with
me. Evidently he had Garfin watching
me, or he would not have learned that
you had released me. He was obsessed
with the idea that you were the younger

“The rest of the story you know. I
dare not think of what would have
happened 1

my re

ie, Mr. E

what really happened the night
I escaped t” asked Ross.

“Well—you shot both Uncle Arthur
and Poole,’’ she replied hesitatingly.

“Did I—did I—” he floundered help¬
lessly.

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “Provi¬
dence helped your aim that night. Wong
buried them both. No, Mr. Ross,” she
finished, as she noted the look on his
face, “don’t feel that way about it. If

you hadn’t killed them they would have
killed you, and I would have suffered a
fate worse than death. Under the cir¬
cumstances I cannot feel sorry.”

“What happened to Beebet” asked
Ross, curious as to the fate of that dubi¬
ous individual

“That’s a mystery. He amply disap¬
peared that night and we have not seen
him since. Wong just barely missed him
that night with a hatchet. I think he
is deathly afraid of Wong. At any rate,
he is gone. And now, Mr. Ross, I want
to ask you a-question: How did you
manage to escape from your prison that
night! Wong won’t tell me a thing. He
just grins when I ask him, and I suspect
I owe a great deal to Wong.”

“You surely do, Miss Carver,” an¬
swered Ross fervently. “That Chinaman
is a wonder. In some way he got hold
of my automatic and cartridge belt. He
passed them to me through the window,
and then, under some pretense, got Gar¬
fin to come and open the door. Then-
well, Garfin won’t ever bother us again.”

CHAPTER TEN
A NEW DANGER
TT71TH the passing days, Ross found
’ ' new strength and new interest. His
head was already healed aud his
shoulder, beyond being stiff, no longer
bothered him. While still somewhat
weak, he was able to walk about as he

He found it very pleasant to pass the
afternoons away on the long veranda.
Here he was often joined by Virginia
Carver, and the two spent hours together
that were very pleasant. In fact, Ross
suddenly became acutely aware that he
was taking more than a passing interest

Virginia Carver was exceedingly love¬
ly. Moreover, she was of a type and
personality that particularly appealed
to Stanley Ross. While she was nursing
him through his illness he had found her
presence very pleasing. Now that he was
nearly well, her companionship was be¬
coming even more delightful, and he
realized that, as far as he was concerned,
friendship was ripening into something
more definite. As he continued to im¬
prove he knew that the time was fast
approaching when they would have to
leave this desert oasis.

He found his mind continually recur¬
ring to Larson Beebe. How had he man¬
aged to disappear so completely that
night 1 Where had he gone ? What was
he doing now? Ross could not dismiss
the idea that they would hear from Beebe
again, and that when they did it would

Chicago Man Attacked by Fighting Owl

A Powerful Novel of Sinister Madmen That
Mounts To An Astounding Climax

The Jailer of Souls

Complete In This Issue

By HAMILTON CRAIGIE

CHAPTER OUE
SOUTHWEST OF THE LAW

A LL THE WAT Westward in the
smoker the man in the high-
crowned, black Stetson had
taken no part in the conversation. He
had appeared to doze, stamping in the
high-backed seat as the train rushed on¬
ward into the golden afternoon.

The three men at his back had been
busy with an interminable round of
poker: draw, jack-pot, end stud; deuces
wild, and seven-card peak. They moved
across the aisle now, as the long train
slowed for the brief stop at Two-Horse
Canyon, facing him obliquely and a lit¬
tle to his left.

Twice or thrice they had essayed to
draw him into the talk, but the man in

the black Stetson had been oblivions; he
had continued taciturn—morose, almost,
one might have said. But he had not
been asleep; rather, he had'listened with
all his ears as their voices had reached
him between handB:

“. . . . Yes—Dry Bone—been there
myself—they run things pretty much to
suit themselves . . . Wide-open . . .
Sure . . . You might call it a dead

WEIRD TALES

It is significant that the conductor was
breaking a ridged Company rule by
joining Annister m a surreptitious cigar.
Now he turned guiltily as a voice sound¬
ed from the corridor at his back:

“Ex-cuse me—-but could I trouble
you for a light!”

The third man, as Annister could see,
was tall and heavily built, with broad
shoulders and a curiously small head.
He had a sharp, acquisitive nose, and a
mouth tight-lipped and thin. Annister,
versed in reading men, was abruptly
conscious of an instinctive and overmas¬
tering repugnance. For the man’s eyes
were cold and cruel, sleepy-lidded, like
a snake’s, roving between Annister and
the conductor in a furtive scrutiny.

The match was still alight. Annister,
his hand steady as a rock, extended it to
the newcomer, who, with an inarticulate
grunt, lightef his cigarette, turning,
without further speech, backward along
the corridor.

Annister waited a moment until he
was certain that the man was but of
earshot. Then:

“The ‘third light,’ eh!” he mur¬
mured, his tone abruptly hardened.
“Well—and why shouldn’t I get off!”
he asked, grimly.

The conductor for a* moment seemed

s, Mr. Annister,” he said

slowly. “I’m a new man on the S. P.,
but I’ve been hearing a lot—no gossip,
you understand—but a conductor hears
a good deal, by and large . . . And this
is a cow country, or it used to be—pretty
wild, in spots. Dry Bone, now—they
run things pretty much to suit them-

He paused, in a visible embarrass¬
ment.

“There’s a party of four back there

ing what they were saying, and—well—
I’m just repeating what they said, and

"That’s all right,” interrupted An-

“Why—they said,” continued the
conductor, “that you were an Eastern
gambler—a—confidence-man—that you
were not wanted here in Dry Bone; that
it wouldn’t be exactly healthy for you
if you stopped off—that’s all. I thought
you’d be wanting to know. And if
you’ll take my advice, even if you
haven’t asked it, I’d say: go on to
Tombstone—you can figure it out from

“Fifteen minutes,” replied the con¬
ductor, glancing at his watch. “But if

1 was you, sir, I’d stay aboard; it’s a
bad crowd there, as I happen to know,
and they ’ve got a branch of the S. S. S.
there, only they work it to suit them¬
selves: tar-and-feathera is just a picnic
with that gang; they’re a stemwinding
bunch of assassins, I’ll say! So far
they’ve operated under cover, mostly,
and down here in the Southwest—well—
it ain’t a lot different, in some ways,
than it was thirty years ago. You’ll see
—because they’re—”

“—Southwest of the Law—is that
it!” Annister laughed shortly. “Well
—much obliged, old-timer,” he said. “I
won’t forget it. But I’m getting off.”

The long train was slowing for the
station stop. Annister, striding to his
seat, got down his heavy bag. For a
moment he stood, considering, his gaze,
under lowered lids, upon the long coach
and its passengers in a swift, squinting
appraisal.

The three men were gone.

Somehow, they had found out who he
was. Well—that made little difference,
he reflected, grimly, except to force mat¬
ters to a show-down, and the sooner the

For there was a man in Dry Bone;
Annister had known him in the old time;

greatly mistaken, that his business had
to do.

He would put it to the touch, then; he
would sit into the game, and would come
heeled, and they could rib up the deck
on him, and welcome.

a sudden, there came to him a second
warning: there was a swish of skirts, a
sudden odor of violets. Annister had a
glimpse of 'a blonde head beneath a
close-fitting toque, as the girl passed
him, disappearing in the doorway.

And there, on the flooring at his feet,
was a square of white.

Annister, stooping, retrieved it, hold¬
ing the card upward to the light:

“Stay on hoard. Dry Bone is not

safe—for you. Be warned—in

time.”

There was no signature. Annister
made a little clucking sound with his
tongue, his face set like flint. He was
alone in the car.

The train had stopped now as, bag in
hand, he shouldered through the door¬
way. And then, abruptly, as if ma¬
terialized out of the air, a face grinned
into his, lips drawn backward from the
teeth in a soundless snarl. It was the
big man with the cauliflower ear.

"HomBre,” he said, without pream¬
ble, in a hoarse, carrying whisper, “take
an old-timer’s advice: go back—an’ set

down—you savvy! This place—it ain’t
exactly healthy for a young fellow like
you, I’m tellin’ yul For if you don’t—”

Annister’s cold stare was followed by
his voice, low, incisive:

“You’re blocking the doorway,” he
said, with a sort of freezing quiet.

The giant’s hard mouth twisted in a
sneer; his great paw reaching upward
with a clawing motion, blunt fingers
upon Annister’s shoulder. Then—what
followed happened with the speed of
light

“You can’t get off here. Mister—”
the giant was continuing, when the
words were blotted out Annister’s
right fist, behind it the full weight of
his two hundred pounds of iron-hard
muscle, curved in a short arc; there was
a spanking thud. The big man, lifted
from his feet, crashed into the front
door-frame, slumping face downward in
an aimless huddle of sprawling limbs.

“The hell you say!” grinned Black
Steve Annister, leaping lightly to the
platform, with never a backward glance.

CHAPTER TWO
THE HAND IN THE DARK.
pHE ONE HOTEL in Dry Bone w

aware of a veiled hostility in
directed at him from the group of loung¬
ers in the doorway; they gave ground
grudgingly, a

Here, as he could see, there was a
curious mingling of the Old West and
the New: men, whose attire would have
created no remark, say, even in New
York; others, booted and spurred, cart¬
ridge-belted and pistolled—but all, as he
noticed, with, for headgear, the inevit¬
able Stetson.

Once in his room, and the door locked
and bolted, he busied himself for a mo¬
ment with a sheaf of papers, several of
them adorned with a huge, official seal;
they crackled as he put them in an inner
pocket. Then, dressed as he was, he lay
down upon the bed, but not to sleep.

It was late—hard upon midnight—
when the sound for which he had waited
came with the soft whirring of the win¬
dow-weights. The sound was not loud;
it would not have awakened him had he
been asleep; but Annister could hear it
plainly enough.

He . had removed his shoes upon re¬
tiring. Now, in his stocking-feet, he ap¬
proached the window, a black, glimmer¬
ing oblong against the windy night with
out As he watched, the faint whirring

THE JAILER OP SOULS

ceased; a pair of hands appeared sud¬
denly out of the darkness, fingers hooked

Annister drew a faint, hissing breath.
In the star-shine, for there was no moon,
the fingers showed in a luminous gray¬
ness against the sill, clawlike, mal¬
formed, like the talons of a beast, which
in effect they were.

Annister knew them upon the instant,
for, in far-off Java, for instance, he had
seen those hands, or, rather, the same
and yet not the same. And in that in¬
stant he had acted.

Both hands upon the window-sash, he
brought it down with a crash upon those
fingers; there followed a yelp of pain,
inhuman, doglike—a groaning curse—
the slam of a falling ladder—a heavy
thud—silence.

Annister smiled grimly in the dark¬
ness. Whoever it was, the intruder
would never be certain as to whether
that window had crashed downward of
its own accord, or not. And leaning in
the window, Annister raised it cautious¬
ly again after a moment. He heard pres¬
ently the slow drag of retreating foot¬
steps; after all, it had not been much of

Closing and bolting the window, he
undressed in the darkness, and with the
facility of an old campaigner was asleep
and snoring beneath the blankets be¬
tween two ticks of the watch.

But in the morning a surprise await-

Always an early riser, he was break¬
fasting alone in the empty dining-room
when the waitress brought him a note.
Beyond noting that she was pretty, and
. that she did not look like a waitress, An¬
nister, somewhat engrossed in the busi¬
ness in hand, for a moment stared at
the envelope with unseeing eyes.

Then, ripping It open, he took in its
contents in one swift, flashing glance:

“My dear Mr. Annister:

“I would be very glad to see you
at.my office at ten ibis morning—if
you are able to be there.”

It- was signed simply: “Hamilton
Rook.”

Annister grinned fleetingly in answer.
“Well—it’s not another warning, at
any rate,” he said, half aloud, turning
to the consideration of his breakfast ba¬
con. Then, at a low voice at his back, he

“Did you—say your coffee needed
warming, sir!”

It was the waitress.

Annister had turned the note, face
downward, on the table, with a quick
flirt of his thumb. How long she had

been there behind him he could not tdl,
for he had heard no sound.

“Thanks—no,” he said shortly, his
hard eyes boring into hers with an al-

that, her violet eyes darkening now un¬
der his abrupt, almost savage scrutiny.
And her voice-it was like a bell just
trembling out of silence. Annister

“Have you been here long—in Dry

The waitress smiled, and it was not
the smile of a waitress, Annister was
convinced. Now, with a girl like that
for. a partner—was his unspoken
thought—he could—well . . .

“N-no, sir,” the girl made answer,
with a sudden affectation of primness.
“I came in yesterday, sir— on the same
train with you, sir. I—I’ve just been—

Annister repressed an absurd prompt¬
ing to ask her how many times she had
been engaged before, and to whom and
at what. Her eyes were assuredly hyp¬
notic, with lashes long and delicately

“Umm,” he rumbled in answer.

Was it possible, after all, that she had
been the girl in the crimson toque t And,
with the card in his pocket, for a mo¬
ment he was tempted to show it to her.

“Well—I hope you like it here,”*he
said. “Ton’ll know me—the next

And for a moment he could have
sworn that in the face of the girl there
had come all at once a curious, almost
a baffling look, at once enigmatic and
self-revealing. But the entrance of the
vanguard of breakfasters interrupted.

He watched her for a little as with a
swaying, lilting step she moved off to
minister to the late-oomers, his eyes
speculative. Then, turning once more to
the letter,'he re-read it as a man reading

“If you are able to be there.” Could
there be a double meaning in that! For
if Rook had sent that midnight visitor,
then there were no lengths indeed to
which he might go—for the hand, like
a beast’s paw, upon the window-sill, had
been, as Annister had known upon the
instant, the hand of the Thug, the Da-
coit, the Strangler.

Warnings, thrice repeated; a hand in
the dark; a waitress who was not all she
seemed; an invitation, suave, and, as
Annister conceived it, ironic—it was a
situation not without its possibilities for

And Black Steve Annister loved ac¬
tion. Perhaps, after all, he was to have
it now, whether he would or no.

Rook he had known aforetime, but he
was convinced that the latter would not
recognize him save as Black Steve An¬
nister, wastrel of the wide world, gen¬
tleman adventurer-in-waiting to the
High Gods of Adventure and Derring-
do, knight-errant of the highways and
byways of Criminopolis, scarce a black
sheep, indeed, but a wolf of the long
trail and of the night.

Rook had known him as such in the
days when, as jackal for certain .vested
Interests, the black-bearded lawyer had
run foul of young Annister, just then
beginning a hectic career of spending
which, but three years in the past, had
abruptly terminated with Annister’s
complete disappearance from joyous
jazz-palace and discreetly gilded temple
of high hazard.

For he had dropped out of sight, lost,
as a stone is lost, in the soa-green wa¬
ters of oblivion, save for an occasional
ripple threafter which proclaimed him
blacksander, beachcomber, chevalier
d’industrie, until one memorable eve¬
ning a twelve-month gone . . . but Rook
would be knowing nothing of that.

Annister had come home from the
South Seas to find his father gone, and
a note: “Do not look for me, for you
are not my son.” And an exhaustive in¬
quiry had failed even to suggest the
slightest due.

The elder Annister could have writ¬
ten his check for seven figures, and it
appeared, following his disappearance,
that he had done so; they had come in
from North and South and East and
West, steadily, and, as it seemed, with
purpose. But as a clue to his where¬
abouts they had been unavailing.

But, from the moment of his discov¬
ery of that note. Black Steve Annister,
visiting a certain office in a certain side-
street not far distant from the Capitol,
had surprised its guardian with a terse:

“That offer of yours, Childers—I’ve
come to take it up.”

The man called Childers had bent a
keen look upon his visitor; another
might have described it as unpleasant,
stern.

“Well, you know just what that
means, eh»” he had said. “You’ll be
merely a cog, a link—remember that!”

“Yes,” Annister had answered, and
there the interview had ended.

And so Black Steve Annister, serving
two masters, had come to Dry Bone, and
the end; as it might chance, of the long
trail leading Westward into the setting

WEIRD TALES

The huddled figure on the carpet had
disappeared. There had been no sound,
no sign. The Indian had vanished.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE PACE IN THE MOONLIGHT

At the club, as the afternoon wore on
to evening, he had met four or five
men: Beaton, the county judge, a
red-faced tippler with, on the surface, a
heartiness that was repellant; Lunn, the

with a small, porcine eye; Daventry, the
Land Commissioner, whose British
accent, Annister noticed, would on occa¬
sion flatten to a high, nasal whining that
was reminiscent of Sag Harbor or Buz¬
zards Bay.

The rest, hard-faced, typical of their
environment, Annister put down for the
usual lesser fry; hangers-on, jackals, as
it might chance, “house-men,” in the
parlance of the ‘ ’ poker-roora * ’—Annister
knew the type well enough.

They seemed hospitable, but once or
twice Annister had thought to detect in
their glances a grimly curious look: of
appraisal, and of something more.

There had been a game going, but he
had not sat in, nor had the lawyer in¬
vited him. The visit had been meant,
plainly enough, as a sort of introduction.

“We’re all here,” Rook had said.

But it was apparent, too, that there

Annister heard several references to

a silence, beneath which Annister could

vibrating, deep-down; almost, he might
have said, a certain grimly quiet antici¬
pation of that which was to come.

Presently the telephone tinkled, loud
in the sudden stillness; Annister could
hear the voice at the other end: harsh,
strident, with a bestial growl that
penetrated outward into the close room.

“He can’t come,” came from the man
at the telephone. “Bull—yeah—an’ I
reckon he seems some disappointed.”

Annister noticed that the tension had
all at once relaxed, and with it, as he

faces about him a certain disappoint¬
ment. It was as if they had been wait¬
ing for something—something, well, that
had not materialized. There was a laugh
or two; a word stifled in utterance; one
or two of the men, glancing at Annister
and away, gave an almost imperceptible
head-shake. Even Rook, as Annister

could tell, appeared relieved as the new-

a conventional good-night.

For just a split second it seemed to
Annister that something was about to
happen; for a moment he saw, or fancied
that he saw, a quick, silent- signal flash,
then, from eye to eye; Lunn, the hotel
man, had half risen in his chair; out of
the tail of his eye, as he was turning
toward the door, Annister was aware of
a quick ripple, a movement, the shadow
of a sound; like the movement of a con¬
juror manipulating his cards, white

But nothing happened.

Leaving, he had walked slowly toward
the hotel, turning over in his mind the
story that had been told him by the
lawyer. And there was one more ques¬
tion he wanted to ask him: a question
that had to do with a square of paper
that he had come upon among his
father’s papers in New York, for it had
been this chance discovery that had sent
him, post-haste, to Dry Bone, and the
lawyer’s office.

Thinking these things, he was turning

whore as it seemed, a man had passed
him, walking with a peculiar, dragging
shuffle. Seen under the moon for a mo¬
ment, this man’s face had impressed it¬
self upon Annister: it was dark and
foreign, with high cheek-bones, and—
what seemed curiously out of place in
Dry Bone—a black moustache and pro¬
fessional Van Dyke.

Annister, watching the man, saw him
turn into the doorway he had just
quitted; it was the entrance to the
“club”—two rooms above a saddler’s
shop at the corder of the street.

Halting a moment to look after the
man, Annister was wondering idly who
he might be—certainly not the man
called “Bull,” if there was anything in
a name. And then, abruptly, he was
remembering what the lawyer had let
fall about the “doctor”; perhaps that
was who he was; he had had a distinctly
professional air.

The man’s eyes had lingered upon
Annister for a moment, and for a mo-

curious shock. For it had been as if the
man had looked through rather than at
him; those eyes had glowed suddenly in
the darkness, gray-green like a cat’s, in
an abrupt, ferocious, basilisk stare.

queer comers and some tight places; in
Rangoon, for example, he had penetrated
to a certain dark house in a dim back¬
water stinking and dark with the dark¬
ness of midnight even at high noon.

And it was there, in that dark house,
with shuttered windows like blind eyes
to the night, that he had seen that which
it is not good for any white man to have
seen: the rite of the Suttee; the blood¬
stone of Siva, the Destroyer, reeking
with the sacrifice—ay—and more.

And something now, at that time half-
perceived and dimly understood, came
again with the sight of the dark, face
with its high cheek-bones, and black,
forking beard; for he had seen a creature
with a face and yet without a face, mewl¬
ing and mowing like a cat, now come
from horrors, and the practitioner had

The man who but just now passed him
at the comer of the street, the man with
the dark, foreign viaage, and the eyes
of death.

CHAPTER FIVE
PARTNERS OF THE NIGHT
A NNISTER, pausing a moment at the
comer of the street, was conscious
of a feeling of coldness, like a bleak wind
of the spirit, as if death, in passing, had
touched him, and gone on.

For the face of the man whom he had
seen had been like the face of a damned
soul, unhuman, Satanic in its sheer,
visible malevolence. So might Satan
himself have looked, after the Fall.

Somehow, although the man had
looked straight ahead, seeming to see
merely with the glazed, indwelling stare
of a sleepwalker, Annister had felt those
eyes upon him; he was certain that he
had been seen—and known. But now he
had other things to think about.

He bad intended going to the hotel
Now, on an impulse he bent his steps
away from it, turning to the building in
which were the offices of Hook.

But he did not enter by the main door¬
way. There was an alley further along;
into this he melted with the stealth and
caution of an Indian, feeling his way
forward in the thick darkness to where,
as he had marked it earlier in the day,
there was a rusty fire-escape; its rungs
ran upward in the darkness; they
creaked now under his hand as he went
slowly up.

Rook’s office was on the second floor.
Annister, reaching the window, found it
locked, but in a matter of seconds had it
open, with the soft snick of a steel blade
between sash and bolt; the thing was
done with a professional deftness, as if,
say, the man who had opened that win¬
dow had done that same thing many
times before.

Now, crouched in the darkness by that
dim square of window, the intruder stood
silent, listening, holding his breath. A

WEIBD TALES

bored into his; his voice came with a
snarling violence:

“Mister Black Steve Annister,” he
said, without preamble. “I understand

A bad hombre 1 Musta been a little bird
done told me, an’ that bird was sure
loco, I’ll tell a man! But me-" his
tone hardened to a steely rasp—‘I’m
not thinkin’ you’re such-a-much!”

It was a trap; Annister knew that now,
just as behind the gunman he could al¬
most see the dark face of Rook, with its
sneering grin; the lawyer had inspired

His automatic hung in a sling under
his left arm-pit, but even if he could
beat Westervelt to the draw, he knew
well enough what the result would be:
a shof in the back, say, from the men
sitting just behind, or—arrest, and the
mockery of a trial to follow it Either
way, he was done.

His own eyes held the pinman’s now,

left He was conscious of a movement
from the three men at the table; Wester-
velt’s companion, a short, bowlegged
man, with the pale eyes of an Albino,
had stepped backward from the bar;
Annister felt rather than saw his hand
move* even as his own hand came up and
outward with lightning speed; flame
streaked from his pistol with the motion.

.Once in a generation, perhaps, a man
arises from the ruck who, by an uncanny
dexterity of hand and eye, confounds
and dazzles the common run of men. As
a conjurer throws his glass balls in air,
swifter than eye can follow, so Annister,
crouching sidewise from the bar, threw
his bullets at Westervelt.

The gunman, bending forward at the
hips, crashed to the sawdust in a slump¬
ing fall, as the Albino, firing from the
hip, whirled sidewise as Annister’s
second bullet drilled him through the
middle. For the tenth of a second, like
the sudden stoppage of a cinematograph,
the tableau endured; then Annister,
whirling, had covered Bristow where he
sat ; the two men with him, white-faced,
hands pressed flat upon the table-top,
stared, silent, as Annister spoke:

"You saw, Bristow,” he said, low and
even, his eyes upon the cold eyes of the
sheriff in a bright, steady, inquiring
stare. “Now—what about it!”

For a moment a little silence held;
then Bristow, moistening his stiff lips,
nodded, his gaze upon Annister in a
sudden, dazed, uncomprehending look.

“All right, Mr. Annister,” he said
heavily. “They came lookin’ f’r it, I
reckon. . . Well, you were that quick!”

Annister smiled grimly, pocketing his
piStoL Westervelt lay where he had

fallen, a dead man even as he had gone
for his gun, lips still twisted in a sullen
pout. The bowlegged man, stiff fingers
clutching ' his heavy pistol, lay, face
downward, in the sawdust. The bar¬
tender, with an admiring glance at Ann¬
ister, leaned forward as Bristow and the
two men with him went slowly out.

“They may try to get me for it, Mr.
Annister,” he said, “but I’m no man’s
man; well, not Kook’s, and you can lay
to that! Bristow and his friends kept out
of it, you noticed J Bristow’ll do noth¬
ing, now; not yet a while, at any rate,
but—mebbe they sort of savvied me
a-watchin’ t’ see they didn’t run no
whizzer on you!”

He lifted the heavy Colt, where it had
lain hidden by the bar-rail,, thrusting it
in its scabbard with a grin.

“Well, sir, I aimed t’ see that they
was sittin’ close, an’ quiet, Mr. Ann¬
ister,” he said.

“Thanks, old timer,” said Annister.
“I’ll not forget.”

But as he went outward into the wan¬
ing afternoon he was thinking of that
rendezvous of the night. For Rook would
be there, and it had been Rook, he was
certain, who had engineered that am¬
bush in the Mansion House bar.

CHAPTER NINE

THE BATTLE IN THE "CLUB”
qpHE TIME was nearly ripe. The clue

■*- of those newspaper items; the can¬
celed check; the somewhat repellant evi¬
dence of the battered piece of goldwork
picked up in the corridor of the Mansion
House—Annister had been able to put
two and two together, to find a sum as
strange, as odd, say, as five, or seven, or

But that name that had trembled on
the lips of Rook’s secretary remained a
secret; with it, Annister was convinced,
he would be able to pull those threads
together with a single jerk, to find them

He had had news from Mojave: the
dentist had identified the insane man as
his patient by means of his chart, but,
with that face, the man could not be
Banker Axworthy—it simply could not
be. And yet he was!

It was something of a riddle, and more,
even, than that, for the thing savored of
the supernatural, of necromancy, of a
black art that might, say, have had for
its practitioner a certain personage with
the eyes of a damned soul and a black,
forking beard, curled, like Mephisto’s-
Annister thought that it might.

Further, the conductor of that train
had been able to describe, somewhat in
detail, the man who had jostled the der¬

elict and his companion; the man had
been a stranger to the conductor; he
had been tall and thin, with a small,
sandy moustache, and a high-arched,
broken nose, and he had been wearing
the conventional Stetson. The fellow
might have been disguised, of course, but
if Annister could find the black-bearded
man, discover his identity, he was reason¬
ably certain that he would not draw
blank.

It was no certainty, of course, but it
was worth the risk, he told himself. It
would be a desperate hazard that he was
about to face, he knew. Thinking of his
father, together with the remembrance of
that unholy and unspeakable horror that
he had witnessed, bom of the stinking
shadows of that dark street in a city foul
and old, its people furtive worshipers of
strange gods, Annister felt again that
crawling chill which had assailed him
with the passing of the tall man with the
eyes of death.

With Annister, to decide was to act.
Dispatching a brief telegram in code to
a certain office in a certain building in
Washington, he went now to keep his
rendezvous with Rook and the rest. It
was yet early, scarce eight in the eve¬
ning, and the street was full of’ life and
movement, before him, and behind.

And before him and behind, as he
went onward, he was conscious that
those who walked there walked with him,
stride for stride; they kept their dis¬
tance, moving without speech, as he
tamed the comer of the dusty street.

If he had had any doubt about it, the
doubt became certainty as, wheeling
sharply to the left, they kept him com¬
pany now, still with that grim, daunting
silence: a bodyguard, indeed, but a body¬
guard that held him prisoner as certain¬
ly as if the manacles were on his wrists.

It was not yet dark, but with a rising
wind there had come a sky overcast and
lowering; low down, upon the horizon's
rim to the eastward, the violet blaze of
the lightning came and went, with, after
a little, the heavy salvos of the thunder,
like the marching of an armed host.

But Annister, his gaze set straight
ahead, turned inward at the entrance of
the saddler’s shop, mounting the stairs,
m>, behind him he heard the heavy door

Perhaps it had been the wind, but as
Annister went upward he heard, just
beyond that door, the murmur of voices:
they reached him in a sing-song mutter
against the rising of the wind, in a quick,
growling chorus.

There had been something in that
snarling speech to daunt a man less
brave than the man on that narrow stair,
but Annister went upward, lightly now.

WEIRD TALES

B, strident, under the i

The screaming advice wpa in the high
voice of Lunn; the others echoed it But
if Annister was in desperate case, the
giant, sobbing now with the fury of his
spent strength, was weaving on his feet.

Legs like iron columns upbore that
, mighty strength, but a pile-driving right,
behind it the full weight of Annister’s
two hundred pounds of iron-hard muscle,
sinking with an audible “plop/” in his
adversary’s midriff, brought from the
giant a quick, gasping grunt.

Ellison’s endurance was almost done.
He could “take it,” but', hog-fat from a
protracted period of easy living, profes-

teur, with the arching chest of a grey¬
hound and the stamina of a lucivee of the

Trading punch for punch now, An¬
nister abruptly cut loose with pile-driv¬
ing right and lefts; they volleyed in from
every angle; there was a cold grin on
his lips now as he went round the giant
like a cooper round a barrel, bombard¬
ing him with a bewildering crossfire of
hooks and swings, jabs and uppercuts.

Annister, at the beginning of the fight,
had expected the usual tricks of the pro¬
fessional : holding in the clinches; butt-'
ing; the elbow; the heel of the hand
against the face; but Ellison had fought

Now, as the giant, boring in against
that relentless attack, faltered, mouth
open, labored breath sucked inward
through clenched teeth, Annister stepped
backward, hands dropping at his sides.

Ellison, almost out, stood, weaving on
his feet, fronting his adversary, a queer
look of surprise in his face, and a some¬
thing more. Annister, strangely enough,
as has been mentioned, had, in spite of
his encounter with Ellison in the smoker,
conceived something for the man that
liad been close to liking. Somehow, rough
as the man was; crooked, by all the
signs; the tool of Rook and of his min¬
ions, he had the blue eye of a fighter—
the straight, level look of a man who,
though an enemy, would yet fight fair.

Annister, breathing heavily, thrust
out his hand.

“A draw, hat” he said. “Well—sup¬
pose we let it go at that.”

For a moment Ellison appeared to
hesitate; there came again the queer look
in his eyes, as of surprise, wonder, and
a something more. There came a grating
curse from Lunn; a sue’ ’
from the onlookers roundabout.

Ellison’s great paw closed on
tended hand with a grip of

he’s just—a dam’ dickt”

CHAPTER TEN

“IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!”
TT WAS OUT. Rook, his hand in a

lightning stab for Annister’s coat,
turned over the lapel, holding it forward
for all to see.

On it was a small gold badge—the
symbol of the Secret Service. The
secret was a secret no longer.

How long Rook had known of it
Annister could not be certain, but now,
at the growling chorus of swift hate, he
whirled. His pistol came up and out,
as there came a startling interruption,
or rather, two.

He heard Ellison’s voice, roaring in

“Hell’s bells, young fellow, I’m with
you, and you can lay to that! For this
once, anywayl You sure can handle

He turned to Rook and the rest.
“Now—you bums, get goin’1 Dick or
no dick, I’ll play this hand as she lays.
Get goin’l”

The great hand, holding a heavy Colt,
swung upward on a line with Annister’s
as the door burst inward with a crash;
and, framed in the opening, there
showed on a sudden the fiaming thatch
of the bartender, Del Kane.

His cowboy yell echoed throughout
the room, eyes blazing upon the hotel
man where he sat.

In two strides, he had joined Annister
and Bull; guns on a line, the three
fronted the five who faced them, silent,
tense. Kane’s voice came clear:

“I followed you, Mr. Annister;
thought they’d try t’ run a whizzer on
yuh; I’m pullin’ m’ freight after today,
anyway; Mister Lunn can have his job,
an’welcome! Now—I ben keepin’eases
on Mister Rook, he’s a curly wolf, aint
you. Rook? A real bad hombre, an’you
can lay to that! But he ain’t goin’
northwest of nothin’, he ain’t . -Now,
you dam’ short-horns, show some

But there was no fight in Rook, Lunn
and Company. Glowering, their hands
in plain sight, weaponless, they sat in a
sullen silence, as Annister, backing to
the doorway, was followed by Ellison
and Kane. Outside, under pale stars,
the giant spoke:

“I don’t aim to be too all-fired honest.
Mister Annister,” he said. “I throwed
in with Mister Rook, that’s so, but he’s
played it both ends against the middle
with me, I guess. . . I reckon I’ll be

“You sure pack a hefty wallop, young
fellow! I wish I could tell you somethin’,
but that man Rook, he’s as close-mouthed
as an Indian, and that’s whatever! His
game—nobody knows what it is—Lunn,
maybe—but they sure got a strangle¬
hold on th’ county; it won’t be healthy
for me here after tonight.’’

The three men separated at the hotel,
Annister entering the lobby with a curi¬
ous depression that abruptly deepened to
a sudden, crawling fear as a call-boy
brought him a note. The fear was not
for himself, but for another, for, al¬
though he had never seen the handwrit¬
ing before, he knew it upon the instant.

Ripping open the envelope with fingers
that trembled, he read, and at what he
saw his face paled slowly to a mottled,
unhealthy gray:

“If you yet this in time, please
hurry. I’m in the tods, at Dr. El-
phinitone’s—it’s the stone house at
the right of the road leading north
from Dry Bone-twenty miles, I
think. I’ve bribed a man to take
this to you, and if he fails me, God
help met—God help us alll If you
fail me, you’ll never see me again—
as Mary AUerton, because the
Devil’s in charge here, and they
call him the Jailer of Souls. I’ll be
watching for you, at the south win¬
dow—you’ll know it by the red rib¬
bon on the bars. And now—be
careful. If you get here at night
beware of the guards—there are
three. And if it’s night there’ll be
a rope hanging from the window—
you can feel for it in the dark. Now
hurry.

“MART ALLERTON (No. S3).”
“You’ll never see m
AUerton.” Annister wi
that crawling fear. “The red ribbon on
the bars.” The place was in effect a
prison, then.

But —“No. 33”/ Annister’s heart
leaped up. He knew the meaning of
those numerals well enough; he had been
blind not to have suspected it But
“Dr. Elphinistone,” and “The Jailer of
Souls!”

Who could be the jailer of souls but
the Devil? And Annister fancied that
he had seen the Devil at the comer of
that street under the moon, with his
black, forking beard, and the cold eyes

WEIRD TALES

pass, because, on the second day, the
bead had spoken. Travis Annister was
scarcely a coward; he had fought like a
baited grizzly when surprised in his
Summer camp by the men who had
brought him, under cover of the night, to
this prison-house beyond the pale.

Now, at the voice, like the slow drip
of an acid, Annister stared straight be¬
fore him, with the gaze of a man who has
abandoned hope:

“My dear Mr. Annister,” the voice
had whispered, “the little matter of that
cheek, if you please. . . You will make
it out to ‘Cash’. . . Ah, that is good; I
perceive you are—wise.”

It had not been the pistol in the lean,
clawlike hand; nor the eyes, even, brood¬
ing upon him with the impersonal, cold
staring of a cobra; Travis Annister
might have refused if it had not been
for those sounds that he had heard, the
sights that he had seen when, taken at
midnight from his cubicle, he had be¬
held the administration of the Cone.

And, like Macbeth, with that one sight,
and the sight of that which came after,
he had “supped full of horrors,” until
now, at the bidding of that toneless
voice, he had obeyed. Three times there¬
after, at the command of his dark jailer,
he had paid tribute, nor had he been, of
all that lost battalion, the single victim;
there had been others..

Now, separated from him scarce a
dozen feet, a girl with golden hair sat,
huddled, eyes in a sightless staring upon
the stone floor of her cell. Cleo Ridg-
ley had not been killed; she had been
saved for a fate—beside which death
would be a little thing—a fate unspeak¬
able, even as had—Number Thirty-three.

Mary Allcrton, removed from the oth-

wise in the cell-bioek, watched and wait¬
ed now for tile signal of the man to
whom she had dispatched that message,
it seemed, a century in tile past.

That morning they hud found the

menl, while the ophidian gaze of the
dark Doctor had been bent upon her with
what she fancied had been a queer, spec¬
ulative look: a look of anticipation, and
of something more. Bo far she had been
treated decently enough; her cell was
wide and airy, plainly but comfortably
furnished; but as to that look in the
gray-green eyes of the Master of Black
Magic—she was not so sure:

There came a sudden movement in the
corridor without; a panting, a snuffling,
and the quick pod-paid of marching feet.
Mary, her eye to the keyhole of that
door, cbuld see but dimly; she made
out merely the sheeted figures, like grim,
glfding ghosts; the figure, rigid, on the

stretcher, moving, silent, on its rubber-
tired wheels. Then, at an odor stealing
inward through the key-hole, she re¬
coiled.

That perfume had been siekish-sweet,
overpowering, dense and yet sharp with
a faint, acrid sweetness; the odor of
ether. And then, although she could not
see it, a man in the next cell had risen,
white-faced, from his cot, to sink back
limply as the dark hand, holding that
inverted cone, had swept downward to

A choked gurgle, a strangled, sharp
cry, penetrating outward in a vague
shadow of clamor—and then silence,
with the faint whisper of the wind
among the pines, the brool of the rush¬
ing river, the faint, half-audible foot¬
falls passing and repassing in that cor¬
ridor of the dead.

nrRAVIS ANNISTER sprang to his
feet as the narrow door swung open
to press backward against the window-
bars as the High-Priest of Horror, fol¬
lowed by his familiars, cowled and hood¬
ed, entered with a slow, silent step. The
Doctor spoke, and his voice was like a
chill wind:

“My friend, I bring you—forgetful¬
ness ... A brief Lethe of hours . . .
And then—ah, then, you will be a new
man, a Wan re-born, my friend . . .
Now . . .”

Annister, his face gray with a sort of
hideous strain, stared silent, white-
lipped, as, at a low-voiced order, the at¬
tendants came forward.

The lean hand reached forward; it
poised, darted, swooped; and in it was
the Cone.

CHAPTER TWELVE
CASTLE DANGEROUS
A LONE IN HIS CELL beneath the
court-house, Black Steve Annister
sat in silence, gazing northward through
the barred window to where, invisible in
the thick darkness just across the street,
the road ran, straight as an arrow from
the bow, to that dark forest brooding in
a changeless silence where lay the House
of Fear.

Childers would have had his wire long
since; but by the time that help could
come it would be—too late. Annister,
fatalistic after a fashion, felt this to bo
the fact even as he hoped against hope:

But they were many, and he was but
one. Tomorrow—it would be too late.

Head bowed in his hands, oblivious,
at first he had heard it as a thin whisper,
like a knife blffde against the silence; it
penetrated inward now, with the dull
rasp of metal upon metal from without:

Sit tight, old-timer; I’m cornin’
throughl”

There came a muffled thud, a twist;
Annister, reaching forth a hand, found
it clasped in thick groping fingers. Then,
as he thrust head and shoulders through
the sundered bars, a Shadow uprose,
gigantic, against the stars; the voice
came again, in a quick, rumbling whis¬
per:

“It’s me, old-timer— Bull.”

Annister, crawling through the open¬
ing, alighted upon soft turf. He heard
Ellison’s low chuckle as, following the
pant, he passed along the lee of the
building to where, showing merely as a
black blot against the night, there stood
an automobile, its engine just turning
over, with the low, even purr of har¬
nessed power; at twenty paces it was
scarcely audible above the rising of the
wind.

“Tank’s full, ” said Ellison. “Now—”

He turned abruptly as a dim figure
rose upward just beyond. For a mo¬
ment Annister set himself for the on¬
slaught; then his hand went out; it
gripped the hard hand of Del Kane.

“Ellison done told me, Mr. Annis¬
ter,” he said. “An’ so I come a-fannin’
an’ a-foggin’ thisaway from Mojave;
certain-sure I don’t aim to leave no
friend of mine hog-tied in no cala¬
boose!”

Annister, his heart warming to these
friends, debated with himself; then
turned to Ellison with a sudden move-

“Bull, ’ ’ he said. “I’m putting my cards
on the table with you and DC1, here.”

He told them briefly of the message
from Mary, the need of haste; then, of

even now due, or would be, with the
morning. If they were coming with him,
northward along that road of peril,
word must be left behind.

Kane thought a moment; then, wheel¬
ing swiftly, with muttered word, he dis-

presently with the good news that he had
fixed it with the station-agent. The lat¬
ter had just come on; he was a friend
of Kane’s, and no friend of Rook and
Company; he would see to it, Kane said,
that the reinforcements would be

Boarding the car, they swung out cau¬
tiously along the silent street, under the
pale, stars, northward along that shad¬
owy road. Presently there would be a
moon, but just now they went onward,
in a thick darkness, with, just ahead,
the dim loom of the road, flowing back¬
ward under the wheels, which presently
ran like a ribbon of pale flame under
the bright beam of the lights.

THE JAILER OP SOULS

A half mile from the town, and Bull,
who was driving, opened up, and the
car leaped forward with the rising drone
of the powerful motor, thirty, forty, fif¬
ty miles an- hour; the wind of their pas¬
sage drove backward like a wall as the
giant’s voice came now in a rumbling

"Some little speed-wagon, Mr. A

who di 3 own it half an h
some particular, I’ll say!

Mister Hamilton Rook’s!”

Annister laughed grimly i
speaking a low word of cautio
perhaps a half hour of their
rash the lights glimmered on
to right and left.

“Somewhere about here, I think,” he
said, low. “Three outside guards, I
understand. We’d better stop a little
way this side, Bull . . . that’s it.
Now, look!”

As the big car slid slowly to a halt,
the moon, rising above the trees, showed
them, perhaps a hundred yards just
ahead, a low, rambling, stone house, its
windows like blind eyes to the night
Upon its roof the moonlight lay like
snow, and even at that distance it was
sinister, forbidding, as if the evil that
was within had seeped through those
stones, outward, in a creeping tide.

“Looks like a morgue,” offered Elli¬
son, with a shrug of his great shoulders,
as the three, alighting, pushed the car
before them into the wood.

Then, guns out, they went forward
slowly among the trees.

Annister had formed no definite plan
of attack. The red ribbon at that win¬
dow-bar might or might not be visible
under the moon, but, the guards elimi¬
nated, it seemed to him that, after all,
they would have to make it an assault
in force. Pondering this matter, of a
sudden he leaped sidewise as a dim fig¬
ure rose upward almost in his face.

Spread-eagled like a bat against the
dimness, the figure bulked, huge, against
the moon as Annister, bending to one
side, brought up his fist in a lifting
punch, from his shoe-tops.

It was a savage blow; it landed with
the sound of a butcher’s cleaver on the
chopping-blook; there came a gasping
grunt; the thud of a heavy body, as the
guard went downward without a sound.

“One!” breathed Ellison, as, trussing
their victim with a length of stout line
brought from the car, they left him,
going forward Carefully, keeping toge¬
ther, circling the house.

But it was not until they were half
way round it, with; so far, no sign of

that signal for which he looked, that
they encountered the second guard.

He came upon them with a swift, si¬
lent onrush, leaping among the trees, a
great, dun shape, spectral under the
moon, fangs bared, as, without a sound,
the hound drove straight for the giant’s
throat.

A shot would bring discovery; they
dared not risk it. Annister could see the
great head, the wide ruff at the neck,
the grinning jaws . . . Then, the giant’s
hands had gone up and out; there came
a straining heave, a wrench, a queer,
whistling croak; Ellison, rising from his
knees, looked downward a moment to
where the beast, its jaw broken by that
mighty strength, lay stretched, lifeless,
at his feet.

By now they had come full circle,
when, all at once, Annister, peering un¬
der his hand, sucked in his breath with
a whispered oath.

Fair against the bars of a window,
low down at their right, there was a dark
smudge; the ribbon, black under the
moon. Annister’s heart leaped up in
answer, as, with a quick word, he halted
his companions in the shadow of a tree.
A moment they conferred; then Ellison
and Annister could almost see his grin
in the darkness spoke beneath his hand:

“Why, that’ll be easy! I’ve got m’
tools; they’re right here in my pocket,
Mr. Ann ister! Those bars ought to be
easy! For a fair journeyman sledge-
swinger, it’ll be easy an’ you can lay to
that!”

“Good!” whispered Annister in an¬
swer. “But—-hurry!”

The moonlight lay in a molten flood
between them and the house. But it was
no time now for deliberation. Crossing
that bright strip at a crouching run, the
three were at the window; Annister’s
harsh whisper hissed in the silence,
through those iron bars:

"Mary/”

For a heart-beat silence answered him;
then, faint and thin, in a faint, tremu¬
lous, sobbing breath, there came the
answer:

“Steve—thank God!”

Annister had spoken the girl’s name
without thought. At that high moment
forms had been futile; that whisper had
been wrung from him, deep-down, as
had her answer. And then the soft rasp
of steel on steel told that Ellison was at

But the giant was working against
time. At aMy moment now might come
the alarm; they had no means Of know¬
ing the number of those within those
walls; perhaps even now peril, just be¬
hind, might be stalking them, out of the

And still that soft rasp went on, until,
at a low word from the girl, the giant,
laying down his file, bent, heaved, put¬
ting his shoulder into it; and the bars
sprang outward, bent and twisted in

the thick darkness of the little cell. But
it was no time for dalliance.

Kane and Ellison behind him now, he
set his shoulder against the door, as,
Ellison aiding, it splintered outward
with a soft, carrying crash. Ahead of
them, along a dark, narrow corridor,
there had come on a sudden a sound of

“My friend, I bring you—forgetful-

The words came in a sort of hissing
sibilanee as Annister, reaching that
doorway, halted a moment as the tableau
was burned into his brain:

He saw his father, helpless, his face
gray with the hideous terror of that
which was upon him, in the grasp of two
cloaked and hooded figures, their dark
faces grinning with a bestial mirth.

And before him, hand upraised and
holding a curious, funnetshaped object
at which the man in the corner shrank
backward even as he looked, he saw a
tall man with a black, forking beard—
the same that he had seen that evening
at the comer of the street; the same that
he had seen in that dim backwater of
Rangoon, the Unspeakable—the man
with the dark, foreign visage, and the
eyes of death.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE JAILER OF SOULS
A NNISTER’S GUN went up and out
as the black-bearded man, turning,
saw him where he stood.

Travis Annister, parchment-pale, took
two forward, lurching steps, as the doc¬
tor, backing stiffly against the, wall,
hands upraised, called something in a
high sing-song, savage, inarticulate.

Then—everything seemed to happen
at once. A snarling, animal outcry
echoed from the passage just without; it
rose, as there Came a far, gobbling mut¬
ter of voices, and the pad-pad of running
feet.

The hooded Familiars, as one man,
turned, and tile long knives flashed lu¬
minous, under the lights, as Kane and

WEIRD TALES

Annister, covering the Doctor, froze
suddenly in motion as that gobbling hor¬
ror mounted, and then, Ailing that nar¬
row way like figures in a dream, they
came: the outcasts, the lost battalion,
the Men Who Had no Right to Live.

In their van, but running rather as
if pursued than as if in answer to that
snarling call, there came three men,
guards by their dress, their faeee con¬
torted, agonized, upon them the impress
of a crawling fear. They streamed past
■that door, pursuers and pursued, as
Black Steve Annister, finger upon the
trigger of his pistol, saw that lean hand
sweep upward; it flicked the thin lips;
the dark face grayed, went blank; the
Dark Doctor, his gaze in a queer, frozen
look upon Eternity, pitched forward

In some way, as Annister could un¬
derstand, the madmen had won free,
but—how t

Turning, he saw a white face at his
elbow as there sounded from without the
staccato explosions of a motor, and a
swift, hammering thunder upon the
great door.

“I am—Newbold Humiston,” said the
face, “and I am not mad, or, rather, I
am but mad north-north-west, when the
wind is southerly,” he quoted, with a
ghastly smile. "This devil—” he pointed
to the body of Elphinstone—“has gone
to his own place, but the evil that he did
lives after him—in us.”

His voice rose to a shriek as there came
a rush of feet along the corridor: a com¬
pact body of men, at their head a tall

man at eight of whom Stephen Annister

“Well, Childers,” he said. “I’m
glad!”

Childers spoke, pantingly, in quick
gasps:

“We just made it, old man,” he said.
‘ ‘ A day ahead at that. The station agent
put us on the track. We got ’em ail—
Lunn, and the rest; all but Rook—”

He paused, at Annister’s inquiring
look, turning his thumb down with an ex-

“We found him—strangled—in his
office ... a queer business . .

Annister gave an exclamation.

“The Indianl” he said. “Well, Rook
was the ‘Third Light,’ sure enough 1”

Again he was seeing the lean, avid
face in the vestible of the smoker, the
lighted match; himself, and the conduc¬
tor, and Rook, the lawyer’s pale eyes
brooding above the glowing end of his
cigarette . . . And again, as the picture
passed, he was aware of the white face
at his elbow as Mary Allerton, her hand
in his, behind her the golden hair and
the wide eyes of Cleo Ridgley, turned
to Childers with a smile that yet had in
it a hint of tears.

He that had been Newbold Humiston
continued:

‘ ‘ The others—they ’re quiet now. The
guards have gone—to follow him —the
others saw to that. ’ ’

He gestured to,ward the silent figue on
the floor.

“His plan was worthy of his master,
the Devil, because it was diabolically

simple: Royk was his procurer and his
clearing-house; you see, Rook found the
victims, and cashed the checks that El¬
phinstone wrung from them; and then,
when they had cleaned up, or when they
deemed the time was ripe, the victims—
disappeared. Rook’s secretary they kid¬
napped for revenge; Miss Allerton be¬
cause she knew much; they, suspected
that she was in the Secret Service. And
so—these others disappeared.”

He laughed; the laugh of a dead man
risen from the tomb.

“They disappeared—yes—but—they
remained, as you see—myself—a living

“But howl” asked the younger An¬
nister, in the sudden quiet, the realiza¬
tion of what his father and Mary had
escaped burning like a a quick fire in his
veins. The toneless voice went on:

“Elphinstone was a surgeon, a mas¬
ter .. . You’ve heard of Dermatology!
Well, it’s been done in India, I believe;
practiced there to an extent unknown
here, of course. An anesthetic, and
then an operation: new faces for old;
forged faces; the thing was diabolically
simple. And so when they, the victims,
saw themselves in a mirror, sometimes
they went mad, for who could prove it?
Who would be believed f”

His voice rose, died, gathered
strength, as a candle flames at the last
with a brief spark of life:

“It’s done,” he muttered. “He’s
gone—but his work lives after him, even
as he called himself—the Jailer of
Souls!”

THE END.

Editor Baffled by Weird Seance

CIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE’S lecture tours in the
^ United States have oreated wide discussion and consid¬
erable difference of opinion, some persons contending that
he is really in communication with the spirit world, while
others declare that he is the victim of tricksters. In order
to condnot an impartial investigation, J. Malcolm Bird, asso¬
ciate editor of The Scientific American, attended several of
Sir Arthur’s seances, and afterward declared that he had
observed psychic phenomena that could hardly be explained
by any known natural cause. He eould discover no physical
connection between the medium or the spectators and the
phenomena, and he saw mysterious self-luminous lights,
attributed by Sir Arthur to ectoplasm, and heard strange
noises that defied his efforts to establish a natural cause.

“My best judgment would be that both in direotion and
subject matter much of the ‘communicated’ material of the
seance would be quite beyond the normal ability of the me¬
dium,” he said. “The seance entered a phase whioh seems
to me to prove, without question, that telepathy or some
other force with intelligence behind it was at work.

“The trumpet began to talk, loudly and distinctly and
coherently, in a voice that had not yet been heard . . ,
It was not ordinary ventriloquism, because the ventriloquist
cannot work in the dark. He doesn’t deceive your ears, but
rather your eyes, by directing your attention to the point
whence he wishes you to infer that the sound came. The
voice really came from the center of fhe circle. ”

JACK O’ MYSTERY

A Modern Ghost Story
By EDWIN MacLAREN

WEIRD TALES

lie door to the adjoining
' ' 1 My

lunch. There's no
danger of our being disturbed.”

Preceding him into the inner office, she
bade him lock the door; and, thus as¬
sured of their safety from interruption,
she sat nervously on the edge of a chair
and faced him across the flat-top desk.
There clung to her, somehow, a subtle
suggestion of wealth and luxury, and her
well-chiseled features denoted good
breeding. Subtle, too, was the delicate
odor of violets that fragrantly touched
his nostrils as she leaned toward him
across the desk. Then he noticed she
wore a rich cluster of the flowers upon
her mauve silk waist.

He observed, also, the purplish sha¬
dows beneath her large brown eyes, her
half-frightened, half-worried demeanor
and her air of suppressed excitement, as
though she were struggling to pontrol
some inner perturbation.

“Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” she
began, “in coming here. I don’t know.
But I’ve been so perplexed, so utterly
mystified, by some strange things that
have happened lately—Did you ever
hear of Willard Clayberg?” she broke
off suddenly to ask.

Barry knitted his brows. The name
bad a familiar sound.

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I
seem to remember him. Wasn’t he the
North Shore millionaire who went in¬
sane last winter and killed his wife and
himself?”

She nodded. Her elbows were rest¬
ing on the desk and her slender fingers,
interlaced beneath her small white chin,
were twitching.

“Exactly. They lived, as you prob¬
ably recall, in a quaint old-fashioned
home near Hubbard Woods—just the
two of them; no children. Following
the tragedy, the house was closed up and
for a long while remained unoccupied.
Despite the scarcity of dwelling places,
nobody apparently cared to live there.
For one thing, it is not a modern resi¬
dence, and for another—and this really
seemed the most serious objection—it
it had acquired a reputation of being
‘haunted.’

“Of course,” she went on, with a
nervous little laugh, “you will say—just
as I said—that such a thing is perfectly
absurd. You’d think that no normal
person would take it seriously. And yet
there were so many strange things told
about the house—creepy stories of weird
sounds in the dead of night and unearth¬
ly things seen through the windows—
that people, ordinarily level-headed, be-

"I have never believed in ghosts, Mr.
Barry, and I’ve always ridiculed people
who did; but now—Do you know my
husband, Scott Peyton?”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Barry.
“Architect, isn’t he?”

“A very successful one. He has de¬
signed some of the finest buildings in
Chicago. But he’s the most supersti¬
tious man alive! He’s a Southerner, bom
in Georgia, and at childhood his negro
‘mammy’ filled his mind with all manner
of silly superstitions, including a death¬
ly fear of ‘ha’nts.’ He has never been
able to overcome this, although both of
us have tried.

“About three weeks ago,” Mrs. Pey¬
ton continued, her voice betraying her
agitation, “he and I were motoring
along the North Shore when we espied
this old Clayberg estate. The quaint
charm of the old-fashioned place at once
enchanted me; and when we alighted
and strolled through the grounds my en¬
chantment grew. It seemed as if Nature
had outdone herself in lavishing pictur¬
esque beauty there. Mr. Peyton was as
fascinated as I.

l apartment and buy a

“We w
give up our
suburban h

just the thing we were look!]
inquired of the neighbors co
and it was then we discovered it
history. When my husband was told of
the hideous thing that had happened
winter, and of its evil re

I immediately saw he would n(
sider buying it.

“But I had set my heart on having
that place; and later—after I had
pleaded and argued with him in vain—
I decided to buy it myself and, by com¬
pelling him to live there, perhaps cure
him permanently of his superstitious
fear. I saw the agent next day, learned
the old home could be bought at a bar¬
gain, and had my father buy it and deed
it to me.

“ My husband was furious when I told
him what I had done. He declared he
would never enter the house'and urged
me. to sell it forthwith. But I was as
firm aa he; and finally, after a rather
violent argument and by taunting him
with bring a coward, I contrived to get
his reluctant consent to make our home

“W® MOVED in last Thursday,”
' ' said Mrs. Peyton rotting nearer
the desk and lowering her voice, “and on
Thursday night, and every night since
” “ sxhaled audibly, her lip

“What happened?” asked Barry.

“It’s been a nightmare!” she ex¬
claimed with sudden vehemence. “Ever
since that first night the most peculiar
things have happened. I don’t know
what to make of it, or what to think, or
do. It’s baffling! I’m not in the least
superstitious; and yet—”

“Start at the, beginning,” suggested
Barry, “and tdl me exactly what hap¬
pened.”

“Well, the first night we slept in the
master’s bedroom—a large front room
on the second floor—and about midnight
I was awakened, by my husband, who
was sitting up in bed, gasping and trem¬
bling with terror. Before I could speak,
he sprang from bed and switched on the
light and began frantically searching the
room, looking into the closets and under
the bed and peering into the halL

“ ‘For heaven’s sake!’ I cried.
‘What’s the matter?’

“He pointed to the corridor door. His
hand was trembling and his face was as
white as paper. For a moment he seemed
unable to speak.

“ ‘It eame right through that door!’
he said at last. ‘I woke up just as it
came in the room—a ghastly-looking old
man with white hair and a long beard.
It didn’t open the door, but came right
through it!’

“ ‘Nonsense!’ I laughed. ‘You’ve
been thinking about ghosts until you
imagine you’re seeing them. Now come
back to bed and go to sleep.’

“But he indignantly insisted he had
actually seen the thing.

“‘I saw it cross the room,’ he de¬
clared, ‘and stop at the bed and stand
there looking down at me. When I sat
up it disappeared—vanished into air.’

“I couldn’t believe such a preposter¬
ous thing, of course, but, to humor him,
I offered to get up and help him search
the house.

* “ ‘What good would that do?’ he ob¬
jected. ‘I tell you the thing was a
spiral’

“Finally he went back to bed. But
he slept no more that night At break¬
fast next morning I could see he hadn’t
closed his eyes.

“On the following night I again was
awakened by my husband, who seemed
even more frightened than before.

“ ‘It came back again!’ he whispered
hoarsely. ‘It was puttering around

“Then he jumped out of bed and ran
to the desk and lit the lamp there. A
moment later he uttered a sharp cry
and came hurrying back to my bed, with
a sheet of writing paper in his hand.

‘“Look at that!’ he exclaimed, and
thrust the paper before my eyes.

JACK O’ MYSTERY

“I saw written on the paper, in a
sprawling hand, the words, 'Leave thik
Bouset’ and I knew then that some¬
body had been in the room'.

“I got up and tried the door. It was
still locked and the key was in the hole.

I had 1(

hadn’t been touched, apparently. How,
then, had the person entered our room!

“My husband, of course, insisted it
was not a living being, but a ghost, who
could pass through a locked door as
though it didn’t exist. And, as before,
he refused to look for it.

“Next day, however, with our cook
and houseman, I thoroughly searched
the house from top to bottom—and
found nothing. No trace of anybody
having entered the house. Nothing
wrong anywhere.

“On Saturday night I was awakened
again—this time by a frantic knocking
on our bedroom door. I sat up, startled.
My husband was sleeping soundly, ex¬
hausted after two sleepless nights.

“I slipped quietly from bed, without
disturbing him, and tiptoed to the door
and whispered through the panel:

“ ‘Who’s there!’

“The cook’s voice answered, and I
could tell by her tone she was terribly
frightened:

“'It’s me, ma’am. I’m leavin’ this
house tonight. I won’t stay here another

“I opened the door and stepped out
in the hall—taking care not to awake Mr.
Peyton—and found Clara fully dressed
and holding her traveling-bag. It was
evident she had dressed in considerable
haste, and it was equally plain that she
was almost paralyzed with fear.

“ ‘I just seen a spook!’ she gasped.
‘An old man with white hair and
whiskers. He dome right in my room
while I was asleep. I woke up and seen
’im. And he writ somethin’ on my
dresser. You c’n see for yerself, ma’am,
what he writ there.’

“t'EARFUL of awakening my hus-

* hand, I had drawn her away from
the bedroom door; and now, with some
difficulty, I persuaded her to follow me
to her. room, where I found, written in
white chalk across the bureau mirror,
the command: ‘Louie here at oncet’

“Clara was determined to obey this
‘message from the dead’ by leaving in¬
stantly. I couldn’t induce her even to
stay until morning. Despite my protests
and entreaties, she fled from the house
and passed the remainder of the night,
as I later discovered, in the Hubbard
Woods railroad station, taking an early
train for Chicago.

“I tried to keep the occurrence from
my husband, inventing an excuse for
Clara’s hasty departure, but he wormed
the truth from me, and of course that
further harassed his already over¬
wrought nerves. Also, it gave him the
right to say, ‘I told you so 1 ’

“He renewed his pleading to abandon
the house; but I still refused to give it
up—still refused to admit that it was
‘haunted,’ or that there was anything
supernatural in what he and Clara had

“It didn’t end there, unhappily. On
the very next night—that was night .be¬
fore last—the houseman was visited by
the mysterious ‘thing.’ He said he saw
it in his room, after midnight, stooping
over his table, that he shouted at it and
it disappeared. Then, so he told us, he
got up and struck a light and discovered
the ‘ghost’ had been trying to send a
message to him by arranging some
matches on the table.

“He showed us these matches, saying
he had left them just as they were found.
They were so placed as to spell the word,
'LEAVE,' in capital letters. Evidently
fhe ‘ghost’ was frightened away before
he could finish his sentence. Needless
to say, the houseman left us.

“Well, in spite of all these things, I
simply couldn’t bring myself to believe
that the mysterious visitations were su¬
pernatural. I was sure there must be
some logical explanation. But last
night—!’*

“What happened last night!’’ asked
Barry, as Mrs. Peyton paused.

Mrs. Peyton, still sitting forward in
her chair, was searching in her reticule.
Barry noticed her fingers were unsteady
and that heV underlip was caught be¬
tween her teeth to still its quivering.

“Last night,” she went on, with a
transparent effort at lightness, “J saw
the‘ghost’! Please don’t smile! I was
quite wide awake when I:
awake as I am this mome!
possession of all my wits. And I can’t
understand yet how it got in my room,
or how it got out, or even what it was.

“I was alone in the house, too,” she
continued, taking a photograph from the
reticule and placing it, face down, on
the desk. “Yesterday afternoon Mr.
Peyton telephoned from his office that
he must stay downtown rather late to
attend a meeting of building contractors
and suggested that I come in to the city
for dinner, and bring a friend and ‘take
in a show,’ and meet him afterward. But
I wasn’t in the mood and told him I’d
prefer to stay at

“I reminded him that the chauffeur
and gardener were still with us (they
sleep in the garage and hadn’t been
alarmed by the ‘spook’), and with these
two and Mitch, our Scotch collie, to
guard me I felt perfectly safe. As for
the ‘ghost,’ I laughingly told him, I
really would enjoy meeting it and hav¬
ing a chat on its astral adventures.

“He declined to unbend from his
seriousness and became irritated when I
refused to leave the house. We had
quite a tiff, but I finally had my way,
and the best he could get was a promise
from me to lock myself in before going
to bed. He said he would sleep in one
of the guest chambers.

“After a pick-up meal in the kitchen,
I went upstairs to our room and wrote
letters until ten o’clock. Then I pre¬
pared for bed.

“For a moment I regretted not hav¬
ing done as my husband asked. The
house did seem eerie; no denying that
—big and dark and silent, and not a
living creature in it except myself.

“But I quickly shook off this feeling,
assuring myself there was no such thing
as a ghost, and, even if there was, that
it couldn’t possibly harm me. However,
remembering my promise, I locked the
door and put the key under my pillow,
and bolted all the windows, and, as an
additional precaution, I looked under
the bed and Inspected both closets. And
I knew absolutely, when I put out the
light and got into bed, that I was the
only person in that room.

“I was soon asleep,” said Mis. Pey¬
ton, again feeling in her handbag, “and
it seemed only a few minutes later—
though I know now it was several hours
—when I fouiid myself wide awake. I
suppose it was the lack of fresh air that
awoke me. I’m accustomed to sleeping
with the windows open.

“I was on the point of getting up to
open a window , when, all at once, my
blood seemed to freeze. I discovered,
quite suddenly, l was not alone in the

TVARS. PEYTON paused and drew
from the handbag a sheet of blue
linen notepaper. Nervously creasing the
paper in her slender white fingers, she
continued, with heightening agitation,
her large brown eyes earnestly watching
the detective’s face: “I won’t deny,
Mr. Berry, that I was frightened. In
fact, I confess that I was so terrified I
seemed utterly powerless to move or
speak. I had always supposed if I ever
should see a ghost I would feel no fear

WEIRD TALES

whatever. But now that I found my¬
self actually looking at one—or at least
looking at what, in that frightful mo¬
ment, I potently believed, to be one—I
was petrified with terror.

“It was sitting at my desk, right
where I’d been sitting all evening, and
its back was toward me. The moon had
risen and was shining through the

“The figure at the deBk appeared to
be writing. In fact, . I could hear the
scratching of the pen. I could also hear
the ticking of a small dock on the desk.
That’s how still everything was.

“Well, it sat there writing—a blurred,
shapeless object in the silvery moonlight
—for I don’t know how long. It seemed
an age! And all the time I' was con¬
scious—terrifyingly so—that I was
alone in that great house with itl”

Mrs. Peyton paused and took the pho¬
tograph from the desk.

“Instinctively, I tried to scream,” she
went on, “but my throat was parched
and I seemed unable to utter a sound.
However, I must have made some sort
of noise, for the thing suddenly turned
and looked at me over its shoulder. And
for the first time, I saw its face.”

“What was the face liket” asked
Barry.

She handed him the photograph.

“That’s a picture of it,” she said.

It was a kodak “snapshot” of an aged
man with flowing white hair and a patri¬
archal beard. Turning it over, Barry
saw written on the back, “Willard Clay-
berg, December, 1922.*’

“It’s Mr. Clayberg’s last picture,”
said Mrs. Peyton. “I obtained it this
morning from one of his grandsons. It
was taken last winter, shortly before the
dreadful tragedy at our house.”

“Getting back to last night!” re¬
minded Barry.

“Oh, yes! Well, the thing sat there,
quite silent and motionless, staring at
me through the moonlight. Its face was
the same as' the one in that picture,
only, somehow, it didn’t seem real. It
was peculiarly pallid and lifeless—like
the face of a dead person.

“Finally I found my voice and cried
out: ‘Who are you? What are you doing
here?’

desk, without making a particle of
sound, and glided swiftly and silently
across the room—and disappeared!

“That seemed to revive my courage—
the thought that I had frightened it
away—and I sprang from bed and ran
to the door.

“The door was still locked! I tried
the windows. They were still bolted.

Neither the door nor the windows had
been touched. Everything in the room, in
fact, was just as I had left it upon going
to bed.

“Then I crossed to my desk and lit
the lamp there and found—this!” Mrs.
Peyton offered the sheet of note paper,
which she had been nervously fingering.

Barry unfolded it and.read the words
scrawled upon its blue surface:

“Again I warn you to leave this

house. This is the last —”

“When I interrupted him,” explained
Mrs. Peyton, “he apparently had just
written the word, ‘last’ ”

Barry nodded and narrowly examined
the handwriting. It was old-style
script, angular and shaky, indicative of
a very aged and infirm person.

“Have you the notes received by Mr.
Peyton and the cook!”

“No; but I saw them. Both were
written in the same hand as that,” indi¬
cating the sheet of blue paper.

Barry again looked at the photograph,
holding it to the light and inspecting it
closely. Suddenly he asked:

“What sort of clothing did your visi-

“Why, as I remember, he wore a sort
of long gray robe and a queer little cap
—a skullcap, maybe. But it was all very
blurred and indistinct. He seemed to
be enveloped in a kind of gray mist.
With his white hair and beard, the effect
was quite ‘creepy.’ ”

“Anything else happen last night!”

“Nothing—except that I passed the
rest of the night trying to solve the rid¬
dle. The first thing I did, after finding
the note, was to try the door and win¬
dows again—and I again made sure
they hadn’t been touched. I knew posi¬
tively that nobody could get in the
room except through the door or win¬
dows, so how had the old man entered!

question, and growing more perplexed
than ever, when I heard a heavy foot¬
fall on the front porch; then the front
door opened and closed with a bang, and
my husband came bounding noisily up¬
stairs. I knew from this he had seen
the light at my window, even before he
called to me reprovingly through the
bedroom door: ‘Haven’t you turned in
yet! It’s ’way after one o’clock.’

“It was then I decided to say nothing
to him about what happened. And I

“But this morning, as soon as he’d
left for the office, I called on Mrs.
Parker and told her everything. She
suggested that I see you. I hesi¬
tated, at first to do this, because only
yesterday I spoke to Mr. Peyton about

calling in the police or employing a de¬
tective to investigate the mystery, and
he vigorously objected. He really be¬
lieved the thing was supernatural and
declared that no living person could
overcome it The only thing to do, he
said, was to leave the house as the
‘spirit’ commanded.

“I finally decided, however, to follow
Mrs. Parker’s suggestion, particularly
as she recommended you so highly—and
so, quite unknown to my husband, here
lam!

“And now, Mr. Barry,” said Mrs.
Peyton, sitting back in her chair for the
first time and moving her white hands in
a pretty gesture of relief, “what do you
make of it all!”.

TJARRY, examining the feeble hand-
writing beneath a reading-glass,
discerned what appeared to be a start¬
ling solution of the mystery; but, deem¬
ing it best for the moment to say noth¬
ing of this, he offered an obvious answer
to her question:

“From what you have told ine, Mrs.
Peyton, it would seem that an unknown
person, ooncealed in your house, is bent
on frightening you away.”

“But I’ve thoroughly searched the
house,” she protested, “not once, but
several times; and I know positively
that nobody is hidden there—and that
nobody has broken in. Besides, even if
the old man was in the house, or had
broken in, how did he enter my room
last night!”

“Perhaps, after I’ve inspected the

“Can you do it, without Mr. Peyton
knowing!”

“Quite easily, I think, with our help.
Since you are in need of servants, my
presence can readily be explained—”

“Why, of course!” she eagerly inter¬
rupted. “Our new houseman! It will
seem quite, plausible, too,” she added,
rising and glancing at her watch, “par¬
ticularly since I’ve just engaged a new

the way, in my car., We had best start
at once, Mr. Barry. It’s nearly one, and
my husband is usually home before six.”

.... A little later, as the Peyton
limousine smartly threaded its way
through the downtown streets, Barry,
sitting on the front seat beside the chauf¬
feur, planned a procedure that would
either substantiate, or explode, his ten¬
tative explanation of the white-bearded

His first step was taken immediately:
At a State Street department store he
secretly bought a pad of cheap writing
paper, a package of ungummed envel¬
opes, ten two-cent stamps, a thick lead

JACK O’ MYSTEBY

pencil, a jar of mucilage and an oblong
carton of sterilized gauze.

Later still, upon reaching the “haunt¬
ed house,” he saw no cause to revise his
plan, and no reason to doubt that the
solution he already had formed, al¬
though amazing, was essentially correct

With the new cook installed in the
kitchen, Mrs. Peyton conducted him to
the second-floor front bedroom—a com¬
modious south chamber—where she had
seen the “ghost” last night. Barry
looked at the small mahogany desk, sur¬
veyed the white-enameled twin beds,
measured their distance from the corri¬
dor door and carefully examined the
lock thereon.

Then, swiftly though systematically,
he searched the rest of the house and
afterward strolled outdoors. Saunter¬
ing across the velvety lawns, beneath
the aged trees, he casually approached
the garage some two hundred feet from
the house. He had found nothing in the
house, and now saw nothing in the sur¬
rounding grounds, to suggest the weird
things he had heard. Here, to all ap¬
pearance, was only an old-fashioned sub¬
urban home dozing peacefully in the
mellow sunshine of a midsummer after-

At the garage, which aforetime had
been a stable, he engaged in back-stairs
gossip with Frank Dominick, the chauf¬
feur—in the presence of the gardener,
John Hart, an uncommunicative person
—and learned that both were preparing
to “give notice.”

“We ain’t actually seen old Clay-
berg’s ghost—at least not yet," said
Dominick, “but we’ve heard enough
about ’im and I guess he’ll be callin’ on
us next. I guess the only reason we
ain’t seen ’im before is because we sleep
up there,” pointing to the upper floor
of the garage. ‘ ‘ Take my adviee, friend,
and don’t stay here over night. Am I
right, John!”

John Hart, a senile man, shifted his
cud of tobacco and expectorated lavishly,
thus contributing a fresh stain to his
ragged white beard.

“You’re right,” said he, and spoke
no more.

Betnming to the house, Barry was
given a white jacket and a pair of blue
trousera by Mrs. Peyton; and at six
o’clock, wearing these garments and a
servile mien, he was laying the dinner
table when the master of the house ar¬
rived. Barry, with a plate and napkin
in his hands, observed him through the
doorway—a trim-looking man of thirty-
five—and remarked the harrowing fear
that sat upon his countenance.

His haggard eyes, like those of his
wife, denoted loss of sleep; and he

evinced no interest in her “luck in find¬
ing two perfect servants.” In the same
troubled preoccupation, he acknowl¬
edged the introduction of Barry, who
was presented as Thomas Field. Clear¬
ly, he was too frightened and worried to
be conscious of his environment.

Dinner over, Barry’went to his room.
It was a tiny chamber tucked under the
eaves at the rear of the top floor, and
it was here that his predecessor had be¬
held the “apparition” night before last.
Upon the small table, where the word,
“LEAVE” had been spelled with
matches, Barry spread the articles which
he had bought this afternoon.

Then he drew the table to the window,
and'lighted the lamp, and sat down and
began writing letters to mythical per¬
sons in Iowa; His door stood open, and
so did the window, and anybody passing
in the hall, or standing north of the
house, could have watched him at his em¬
ployment.

For upward of two hours he sat
steadily writing, his back to the door, his
face silhouetted against the window;
and when he had written five letters,
and had stamped and directed them to
his imaginary correspondents, he un¬
corked the mucilage pot and sealed the
flaps of the envelops.

And then, somehow, he awkwardly up¬
set the bottle of mucilage, and the stuff
oozed stickily over his pencil and paper.

It was at this moment, or perhaps a
little earlier, that he heard a slight
rustle in the hall behind him, as of some¬
body moving away from his door, but,
apparently intent only upon cleaning
the mucilage from the table, he never
looked round or gave any sign that he

Presently he extinguished the light
and, disrobing in the darkness, looked
from his window. The old Clayberg
stable, now Peyton’s garage, loomed like
a great dusky shadow in the starlit
night; and at a small upper window, al¬
most on a direct line with his, a yellow
light glowed.

Feeling through the dark, Barry re¬
moved the sterilized gaum from the car¬
ton, snipped off a ten-inch length, and
returned the gauze and box to his
pocket. Then he stretched his'length on
the narrow iron bed, his face to the win¬
dow, his door ajar.

Wide awake, he lay staring into the
darkness, his mind alert, sharpened by
expectancy.

npHE MOON rose in the southeast,
^ bathing the outdoors in a silvery
sheen and mitigating, somewhat, the
darkness of his room. The minutes
lengthened into hours; and as the hours

dragged slowly by Barry fought off the
desire to sleep.

The fight became increasingly diffi¬
cult; and finally—he judged if was long
past midnight—it seemed as though he
could no longer force himself to
stay awake. His eyelids drooped. He

And then, all at once, he was wide
awake again, his pulse tingling. Some¬
body had entered his room and was
standing now at the table, between the
bed and window, so near that Barry
could have touched him by reaching
forth his hand.

Barry, hpwever, remained motionless,
simulating sleep; and beneath lowered
lids he watched the intruder—a blurred
gray figure—take up the pencil and
start writing on the pad of paper. The
moon had climbed to the zenith, and fay
its pale reflection Barry distinguished
the^alient marks of his visitor; the long
gray robe, the flowing white hair and
beard, the white skullcap.

Then the figure put down the pencil
and vanished—gliding to the hall as
swiftly and noiselessly, it seemed, as a
shadow leaving the room.

Still Barry did not move. Silence
ensued. Then, from some point down the
hall, came a woman’s piercing scream.

Barry rose, wrapped the lead pencil
in the strip of gauze, and enclosed it
in the cardboard box and replaced the
box in his pocket.

Then, wearing coat and trousers, he
stepped into the hall and lit a gas jet
there—just as the new cook, screaming
with terror, emerged from her room.
Hysterical with fright, she frantically
flourished a scrap of wrapping paper.
And when she could speak coherently:

“I just seen a spook in my room—an
cJd man wid white whiskers. I won’t
stay in this house I He writ somethin’
here—”

She broke off to examine the bit of
paper by the fluttering gas flame; and
when she saw the words written on her
paper she uttered another terrified
shriek and, heedless of her scant attire,
fled toward the front staircase. She
was met at the head of the stairs by Mr.
and Mrs. Peyton—he in pajamas and
bathrobe, she in a peignoir, and both
visibly alarmed—and to them she told,
or tried to tell, the reason for her mad

“Now lemme get outa here!” she end¬
ed, attempting to brush past them. “He
told me to leave tonight—and I’m

Barry, following sleepily in her wake,
rubbing his eyes as one newly awakened
from slumber, heard Peyton saying:
“This is dreadful, dreadful!” and Mrs.

■WEIRD TALES

Peyton entreating the cook to “stay at
least till morning.”

Unable to persuade the cook to re¬
main, Mrs. Peyton turned appealingly
to Barry. “Did you see anything in
your room. Field!”

“No, mem,” said Barry, hiding a
yawn. “I was fast asleep when she woke

This, however, exerted no influence on
the code. Like Clara who went before
her, she departed immediately for the
railroad station, there to pass the rest of
the night

Peace at last returned to the house—
and Barry returned to his room, locked
the door and observed on his pad the
same angular scrawl, “Leave this house
tonight!” which had frightened her
away. Then he went to bed and slept
soundly until after sunrise.

He was up and dressed at seven
o’clock; and when the Peytons came
downstairs about eight he had an appe¬
tizing breakfast awaiting them. As soon
as her husband had left for his office,
Mrs. Peyton, returning from the front
door, looked at the detective with anx¬
ious inquiry in her large brown eyes.

In three swift strides he crossed to the
desk, searched hurriedly among the
papers there and neatly pocketed one of
these. Then he continued to his room.
Mrs. Peyton still sat at the breakfast
table in a pensive reverie, her wistful
brown gaze lost in the morning sun¬
shine beyond the leaded casements.

all, Mr. Barry!”

Barry took a crumpled napkin from
the breakfast table and folded it thought¬
fully between his long Angers. He was
thinking: “Yes, Mrs. Peyton; I’ve dis¬
covered the identity of your ‘ghost,’ and
you alone have the power to ‘kill’ it.”
Aloud, however:

"IH make a report today,” he
promised, and left the room with a stack
of dishes and the folded napkin.

He deposited the dishes in the kitchen
sink. The napkin went into his hip
pocket Then he started upstairs for
his other clothes. At her bedroom door
he paused, listening. The door! stood
open. Mrs. Peyton, downstairs, was sit¬
ting at the breakfast table, absently
crumbling a bit of toast in her Angers,
a faraway look in her eyes. Barry, at
her bedroom door, was remarking the
small, mahogany desk, where, two nights
ago, the “ghost” had written his warn¬
ing to' her.

lyzing handwriting and identifying
Anger prints had earned him the title of
“expert” He spent considerable time
with this man; and then he went to his
office and wrote his report for Mrs. Pey¬
ton.

And when the report was finished he
sat gazing at it musingly—somewhat as
Mrs. Peyton had gazed from her break¬
fast-room window this morning.

With an energetic shrug, as if to shake
off his odd mood, he sealed the report
in an envelope, and put it in his pocket
and started for an office building in
lower Michigan Avenue.

Presently he entered a room in this
building, luxuriously furnished and un¬
occupied, and abruptly halted. In the
adjoining room he could hear the voices
of Scott Peyton and his wife; and since
the door between the two offices stood
partly open, he could also see their
faces. Himself unobserved, Barry stood
silently watching and listening.

“I suppose you’re right, Scott,” she
said, standing beside her husband’s
desk and looking down at him. “After
what happened last night, I’m just
about ready to do as you say-give the
house up ahd move back to town. But
I do so hate to leave that old place. I

Mrs. Peyton looked down, biting a
comer of her lip and twising the wed¬
ding ring of her finger.

“It’s not so much what I want,” she
faltered, her voice tremulously low,
“but—the city is no place—not the best
place for our—Oh, Scott/”' she cried

passionately, and flung out her hands to
him in appeal “Can’t you see!”

Scott Peyton looked up and met his
wife’s eyes; and the thing he saw in
their liquid brown depths instantly
chased the frown from his face and took
him to his feet in a swift rush of re¬
morse and gladness.

In the next instant she was sobbing in
his arms; and he was tenderly patting
her shoulders and saying soothingly:

“It’s all right, honey. We won’t give
the place up. I don’t think —the ghost
—will bother us again. . . .”

At this juncture Barry quietly dc-

A LITTLE LATER he again sat at
his desk, gazing again at the report
he had written. And he now knew that
this report would never be seen by any

But while he is sitting here suppose
we look over his shoulder and glance at.
the thing before he tears it up:

“In Re Peyton ‘ghost’: ....
Using a King Lear costume, which
he put on and off with lightning
agility, the ‘ghost’ hoped, by his
nocturnal prowling, to frighten
Mrs. Peyton into abandoning the

bed, careful to
varied this j
night before last, when he visited
Mrs. Peyton’s room. Had she left
her key in the lock that night, in¬
stead of hiding it under her pillow,
he would have been unable to call
upon her. As it was, he readily
Unlocked the dopr and entered.
Leaving silently, he hid his cos¬
tume, then left the house and re¬
turned, making considerable noise.
.... The Anger prints he left in
glue last night and those he left on
his napkin this morning, as well as
his real and disguised handwriting
positively identify the ‘ghost’ as
Mrs. Peyton’s husband, Scott Pey-

Have You Been Reading About King Tut f
If so, You’ll be Interested in

OSIRIS

The Weird Tale of an Egyptian Mummy
By ADAM HULL SHIRK

T HE recent and lamentable death
of Sir Richard Pannenter, P. R.
G. S., is too fresh in the public’s
mind to warrant further reference, and
were it not that I feel myself capable
of throwing light upon the Incidents con-
■tributing to the sudden and apparently
unnecessary snuffing out of a valuable
life, I should refrain from again allud¬
ing to It.

ft is well known that the physicians
at the time decided that valvular weak¬
ness, of the heart must have been respon¬
sible for the death of the noted Egypto¬
logist, but the statement of his own
doctor that Sir Richard had never there¬
tofore exhibited indications of such
weakness, and that he was, to all ap¬
pearances, hi the best of health just
prior to his death, caused considerable

I had thought to let the facts remain
buried, but, for certain reasons, I shall
recpnsider my determination and tell
what I know.

I shall always remember the night on
which Sir Richard summoned me, as
his counselor, to attend liim at his apart¬
ments in the Albermarle. It was a night
of storm, and the London streets were a
mass of siimo and slush. A beastly wind
had sprung up, and as I left my cham¬
bers at the Temple it almost took me off
my feet Therefore, it was with no little
satisfaction that 1 found a cheery log
fire awaiting me in the library of my
distinguished client’s home, and the nip
of brandy he provided was a life saver.

. I noted, however, that for all his
assumption of cheerfulness, something
was preying upon his mind, and I de¬
termined to get at the root of the matter
without delay:

“How nan I servo you, Sir Richard!”
X asked, briskly. “I see there is some¬
thing troubling you.”

“Is it as apparent as that!” he asked,
faying to appear unooncerned: but his
strong, homely features belied his effort
at calmness.

Before I oould reply, he went ont
‘' But never mind that: I want you to
write my will—-now."

“Tour will!” My expression of sur¬
prise and incredulity was natural, for

“ Mandrake ”

By

4D4M HULL SHIRK

Will appear in the "July
WEIRD TALES

Ift a Strange Tam of
Superstitious Pear

Don’t Miss It!

since I had been retained by him 1 had
marked it as one of his few idiosyncrasies
that he had never made his will. When
I had mentioned to Mm the advisability
of doing so, he had put it by with a
whimsical remark about being super-

“I am in earnest,” he declared, “and
it will be very simple—just a brief form,
and I ’ll sign it with *y man as witness. ’ ’

“But why the haste!” I said. “Why
not wait till I can have the document
properly drawn up at my office tomor-

“No; now!" he said, and there wsb
such finality in his tone I had no choice.

My conoem for my olient, whom I
really liked and respected immensely,
prompted me to ask:

“You’re not ill. Sir Richard!"

He shook his head, with the ghost of
a smile on his rugged face.

“Physically—no. But—”

He paused, and after a moment he
again urged me to proceed with the
making of the will.

I drew up the document, wMeh was
a simple one, leaving the bulk of his
large properties to his sister in Surrey,
with numerous small bequests to friends
and distant relatives, and a handsome
sum and Me private collection to the
British Museum and the Imperial
Museum of Egyptology. We had in his
man, and the document was duly signed,
after wMch he drew a long breath of
relief and, with a return of something
like his natural manner, passed me his
cigar-case and leaned back in his chair,
smoking comfortably.

“I’ve a story to tell you, Madden,”
he said between puffs, “and it’s a queer
yam, too. You’ll think—but never
mind. Listen first, and say what you
like afterward. Only—” he glanced
about Mm with an apprehensive expres¬
sion that fairly set my nerves atingle.
“I hope we have time.”

“Time for what!” I asked.

He relaxed again and smiled:

“It’s all right,” he declared. “I’m a
bit nervous, I guess, but it’s all right.
Have another brandy."

We drank solemnly together. Then he
settled, back onee more and I prepared
to listen.

“Madden,” said he, “perhaps you’ll
smile at what has seemed to me serious
enough to warrant the steps I have just
taken—making my will, I mean—but,
however you look at it, I want you to
know it’s true—every word of it

“My last trip to Egypt—from wMch
I just returned a fortnight ago—-was to
have been my final one, anyway. I’ve
made six trips out there in my life, and
I’ve collected enough information to fill
a dozen volumes. Also, I ’ve contributed
many fine specimens to the museum and

aiag the interpretation of some of the

WEIRD TALES

hieroglyphs. So, all in all, I think I’ve
done pretty well.

“This last visit was in many respects
the most satisfactory, and indeed it wit¬
nessed a triumph in my career as an
Egyptologist that would be a crowning
achievement, were it not for—hut we
won’t speak of that —yet.

“I wonder. Madden, if you know any¬
thing about the ancient Egyptian relig¬
ious ceremonies and forms of worship!
Anyway, I may tell you that the Nile
dwellers, as they were called, recognized
as their supreme deity, Osiris, lord of the
underworld. By some he has been
identified with the Sun and, with the
forty assessors of the dead, he was sup¬
posed to have judged the souls brought
before him by Horns in the double halls
of truth, after their good and evil deeds
had been weighed by Anubis.

“The Egyptians reverenced Osiris
with as devout worship as the Chinese
give to Buddha, and the high priests of
Osiris were regarded with almost as
much awe as the deity himself.

“In all our studies and investigations,
however, we have never been able actu¬
ally to identify Osiris, but it is now gen¬
erally conceded that he was believed to
have lived on earth at one time and that
it was only after his death that he as¬
sumed deific prerogatives. In this re¬
spect the modem Christian theology
may be said to resemble the more ancient
form to some extent.

“Osiris was pictured on many of the
tablets as a creature with the head of a
bull, though there is some disagreement
on this score. In any event, his tomb
was said to exist near Heliopolis, and it
was to investigate this tradition that I
made my last trip to Egypt.”

Sir Richard paused to relight his cigar
and listened to the storm which raged
without Again he gave that hasty, ap¬
prehensive glance about him, then pro-

“It would be impossible for me to ex¬
plain to you, a layman, my inordinate

joy at finding—by what means and after
what tedious labor, I won’t stop to teU
now—a deserted tomb which I knew,
from certain hieroglyphic markings I
found, was the very one of which I had
been in search for the best part of half
a year.

“Understand that thiB whole tradition
of the tomb of Osiris was regarded by
my fellow scientists as a myth, and if it
had been publicly known that I was
giving it sufficient credence to spend a
lot of time and money searching for it
I should have been looked upon as a
madman and laughed out of the societies.
This may enable you to appreciate more
fully my sensatidns on actually locating
. at least the tomb. What I should find
within, I hardly dared conjecture!

‘ ‘ The tomb of a God! Can you imagine
it. Madden!

“And yet, if I had only stopped there!
If only I had been content to pause with
the knowledge I already possessed, with¬
out proceeding further and desecrating
with sacrilegious hands that lonely
sarcophagus in the desert!

“How I succeeded in penetrating this
tomb, of the horrors of bats and crawl¬
ing things that failed to stop me—of the,
almost supernatural awe that came upon
me—I can not pause to tell. It is
enough to say that I stood at last beside
the tremendous coffin of stone, trembling
from an unknown dread. And, as I
stood there, something white fluttered by
me and up through the opening into the
outer air. A sacred Ibis—but how it
had penetrated there and how it had

“Pour out another brandy, Madden—
and throw that other log on the fire, too,
if you don’t mind. My, how the wind
blows! Did you speak! . . . Pardon
me—I’m nervous tonight as I said be¬
fore, very nervous. . . . Where was I!
Oh, yes—

“That great sarcophagus stood before
me, and on it I saw inscribed the sacred
scarabseus and the feather of truth, while

in the center was the word—the one,
wonderful name—‘Heseri’—which is
the Egyptian for Osiris!

“Insatiable curiosity now took the
place of the reverential awe-that should
have possessed me, and with vandal
hands I forced the stone lid from the
casket. One glance I had of a great,
bovine face, a living face, whose eyes
looked into the depths of my soul—and
then I fled as though all the devils of
Amenti were at my heels. . . .

“That is all Madden, except that I
am nervous—fearfully so. It is so unlike
me. You know how small a part fear
has played in my life. I have faced the
dreaded simoon; I have been lost among
savage tribes, I have confronted death
in a hundred forms—but never have I
felt as I do now. I tremble at a sound;.
my ears trick me into believing that I
am always hearing some unusual noise;
my appetite is failing, and I am feeling
my age as I have never felt it until. . . .
Good God! Madden! What was that
sound! ... Oh! look behind you. Mad¬
den! Look! . ..”

A ND now 1 come to that portion of my
statement that will probably be re¬
fused credence by those who read; but,
as I live, it is the truth.

As Sir Richard uttered his last words,
he fell forward to his full length upon
the hearth rug, even as I turned in obe¬
dience to his command. The shadows
were heavy in the far comer of the
spacious room, but I could sec a great,
bulky something that swayed there,
something that was a part, and yet,
seemingly, was independent, of the

I had a vision of two burning eyes
and a black shining muzzle—a heavy,
misshapen head. A strange, animal-like,
fetid odor was in my nostrils.

I shrieked, and, turning, ran madly
from the room, stumbled to the stairs
and fled into the wind-swept night.

Failure to Keep Tab on Quitting Time
Kills Two

'T'ROY HOOKER and Hugh Simpson, linemen for the Okla¬
homa Gas and Electric Company, were repairing wires on
top of a pole in Oklahoma one afternoon recently. As they
worked, they engaged in banter. It was nearly five o’clock
—their quitting time—but neither looked at his watch. The
engineer down at the power house saw it was ten minutes
past five, time to turn on the city’s arc lights. He pulled

down the switch and sent 2,300 volts out to light the city.
The men up on the pole ceased their banter. Their bodies
became stiff. Those on the ground laughed. This must be
some new prank of the boys. Then someone notioed smoke
issuing from Hooker’s shoes. Back at the power plant the
amperage was fluctuating back and forth, and the engineer
knew something was amiss. He threw off the current—but
the men were already dead.

A New Story by Julian Kilman,
Master of Weird Fiction

THE WELL

J EREMIAH HUBBARD toiled with
a team of horses in a piece of
ground some distance down the
road from his dwelling. When it neared
five o’clock in the autumn afternoon, he
unwound the lines from his waist, un¬
hooked the traces and started home with
his horses.

He was a heavy man, a bit under mid¬
dle age, with a dish-shaped face and
narrow-set eyes. He walked with vigor.
One of the horses lagged a trifle, and he
struck it savagely with a short whip.

They came presently to the Eldridge
dwelling, abandoned and tumbled down,
on the opposite side of the Toad. The
farm was being worked on shares by a
man named Simpson, who lived five
miles'away and drove a “tin Lizzie.”
An ancient oak tree, the tremendous cir¬
cumference of its trunk marred by signs
of decay, reared splendid gnarled
branches skyward.

These blanches shaded a disused
well—a well that had been the first one
in Nicholas County, having been dug in
the early fifties by the pioneering El¬
dridge family. It went forty feet straight
down into the residual soil characteris¬
tic of the locale, but, owing to improved
drainage, it had become dry. Nothing
remained of the old pump-house, save
the crumbling circle of Btonework
around the mouth, to give evidence of
its one-time majesty.

A child of eight ran from the rear of
the premises. Hubbard frowned and
stopped his team.

“You better keep away from there,”
he growled, “or you’ll fall into the

The girl glanced at him impishly.
“You an’ Missus Hubbard don’t
speak to each other, do you!”

Hubbard’s face went black. His whip
sprang out and caught the girl about the
legs. She yelped and ran.

An eighth of a mile farther along the
road Hubbard turned in and drove his
team to a big bam. He fed his stock.
It was after six when he entered the
house. This was a structure that, by
comparison with the gigantic bam in the
rear, seemed pigmy-like.

A sallow, flat-chested woman, with a
wisp of hair twisted into a knot, took

from Hubbard the two pails of milk he
carried. She set them in the kitchen.
The two exchanged no words.

Hubbard strode to the washstand, his
boots thumping the floor, and performed
his ablutions. He rumpled his hair and
beard, using much soap and water and
blowing stertorously. In the dining¬
room a girl of twelve sat with a book.
As her father came in she glanced at him
timorously.

He gave no heed to her as he slumped
down into a chair standing before a
desk. The desk was littered with papers,
among which were typewritten sheets of
the sort referred to as “pleadings”;
there was a title-search much be-
thumbed and black along the edges,
where the “set-outs” had been scanned
with obvious care.

The man adjusted a pair of antiquat¬
ed spectacles to his dish-face. To do this
he was compelled to pull the ends of the
bows tight hack, over the ears as his
nose afforded practically no bridge to
support the glasses.

Presently he spoke to the girl:

“Tell your mother to bring on the

The girl hastened out, and shortly
thereafter the mother appeared carrying
dishes. Food was disposed about the
table in silence. The farmer ate gustily
and in ten minutes finished his meal.
Then he addressed his daughter, keep¬
ing his eyes averted from his wife. “Tell
your mother,” he said, “that I’ll want
breakfast at five o’clock tomorrow mom-
“8;”

“Where you goin’, Pa!” asked the
girl.

“I’m goin’ to drive to the county seat
to see Lawyer Simmons.”

Hubbard’s gaze followed the girl as
she helped clear the table.

“Look-a here,” he said. “You been
a-talkin’ to that Harper child!”

“No,” returned the daughter, with a
trace of spirit. “But I jest saw her fa¬
ther over by the fence.”

“What was he a-doin’ there!”

“I didn’t stay, I was afeard he’d
catch me watchin’ him.”

Hubbard glowered and reached for
his hat.

“I’ll find out,” he snarled.

Walking rapidly, he crossed a field of
wheat stubble, keeping his eyes fixed
sharply ahead. It was dusk, but pres¬
ently, at the northern extremity of his
premises, he made out the figure of a

“Hey, Harper!” he shouted. “You
let that fence be.”

He ran forward swiftly.

The men were now separated by two
wire-strand fences that paralleled each
other only three feet apart. These fences,
matching one another for a distance of
about two hundred yards—each farmer
claiming title to the fence on the side
farthest from his own—represented the
basis of the litigation over the boundary
claim that had gone on between them for
four years.

The odd spectacle of the twin fences
had come to be one of the show places in
the county. It had been photographed
and shown in agricultural journals.

“I don’t trust ye. Harper,” an¬
nounced Hubbard, breathing hard.
“You got the inside track with Jedge
Bissell, an’ the two of you are a-schemin’
to beat me.”

A laugh broke from the other.

“I’ll beat you, all right,” he said cool¬
ly. “But it won’t be because Judge
Bissell is unfair.”

His manner enraged Hubbard, who
rushed swiftly at the first fence and
threw himself over. With equal celer¬
ity, he clambered over the second fence.

Startled at the sudden outburst of
temper, Harper had drawn back. He
held aloft a spade. Hubbard leaped at
him. The spade descended.

Harper was slightly-built, however,
and the force of the blow did not halt
the infuriated man, now- swinging at him
with all his might. They clinched. Hub¬
bard’s fingers caught at the throat of
the smaller man, and the two stumbled
to the ground, Hubbard atop. The fall
broke his grip. With his huge fists be
began to hammer the body. He con¬
tinued until it was limp.

Then, his rage suddenly appeased, he
drew back and stared at the inert figure
lying strangely quiet.

“So!” he gasped.

There came the sound of someone
singing, the voice floating distinctly

WEIRD TALES

through the night air. Hubbard recog¬
nized it ior that of an itinerant Free
Methodist minister, whose church in
Ovid hO and his family occasionally at

The song rolling forth, as the
Ma n of God drove along the highway
in his rig, was Jesus, Liver of My Soul.

'P'OB the moment Hubbard shielded
” his face with an arm as if to ward off
an invisible thing.

Then, bending over the prostrate
form, he ran his hand inside the cloth¬
ing to test the action of the heart. He
performed the act mechanically, because
he knew he had killed his man.

He discovered the handbag. Evident¬
ly Harper was on his way to Ovid to
catch the train to the county seat for
the trial on the morrow. This meant
that he would not be missed by his wife
for at least twenty-four hours.

The murderer studied his next move.
Where to secrete the body? A piece of
wood lay back of him, but he was aware
that it was constantly combed by
squirrel hunters. He thought of the
railroad. Why not an accident? Killed
by the very train he was bound for?

He started to lug the body toward the
traok which passed half a mile to the
north. Bealizing, however, that for the
time at hand the distance was too great,
he let the body slide to the ground. Next
he stole along the twin fences to the
highway and peered both ways. No one
seemed abroad.

He came back on the dead run, and
in twenty minutes he had carried the
body to the Eldridge premises and flung
it down the ancient well.

When he returned he found his wife
and daughter together in the parlor,
where with the itinerant preacher, all
three were kneeling on the floor in
prayer. Hubbard unceremoniously
nudged the clergyman.

“That’ll do,” he said.

The minister rose, his tall, lanky fig¬
ure .towering over Hubbard.

“Brother,” he began, in an orotund
voice, “come with the Lord—”

“Yes. I know,” returned Hubbard,
with a patience that surprised his wife.
“But I’ve got something to talk over
with my family.” He paused. “Here,”
he added, feeling in his pocket and pro¬
ducing a small coin, “take this and go

When the preacher had left, Hubbard
called to his daughter.

“Harper was gone when I got over
to the fence.”

“What kept you so long?”

“I walked over to the woods. There’s
a nest of coons. They’re a-goin’ to play

havoc with the corn.” He smiled un¬
naturally. “Xjook-a herel If we can
catch ’em, I ’ll give you the money their
pelts bring.”

Hubbard divined that his acting was
poor. Both the girl and his wife were
frankly regarding him.

“Weill” he shouted. “What’s the
matter with ye?”

“Oh, nuthin’, Pa, nuthin’,” whimp-

“Then go to bed, the two of ye.”

Next morning Hubbard started for
the county seat, a ten mile drive. He re¬
turned that evening and complained
that the case had been adjourned be¬
cause Harper had failed to appear in

The following day he went back to his
field far down the road for moTe plough¬
ing. Twice he was called to the road¬
side by passersby to discuss the disap¬
pearance of Harper.

k later, v

am, he

came along the road with his
discovered the Harper child
dridge premises. She was
edge of the well.

With a suppressed oath, he dropped
the lines and half-walked, half-ran, to
where the little girl sat.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from
there!” he exploded.

The girl stared at him, but made no
move, though her lips quivered. Hub¬
bard glanced back to observe the road.
Then he caught her arm.

“Go home!” he shouted.

He spun her roughly. She continued
to stare at him as she retreated home-

AU that morning Hubbard worked
his horses hard. He realized that he
was eager to go back by the Eldridge
dwelling. Promptly at twelve o’clock,
therefore, he tied his team and started
up the road. A flash of relief came to
him when he did not observe the little
girl. It left him cold, however.

“Eatin’ dinner,” he mumbled.

He moved off, without looking into
the well. Until four o’clock that after¬
noon he labored. On his way home he
discovered the girl again seated by the
well. She was bending over and acting

Hurrying his horses to the roadside,
he looped the lines over one of the posts
in the old “snake” fence. As he ap¬
proached, he saw her toss a piece of

Hubbard waited until he was sure of
his voice.

“Come with me,” he said.

Gripping the girl he started with her
toward her home but a short distance
away. When they arrived the front

Mrs. Harper merely reached out her
arms for her daughter. Hubbard re¬
mained standing awkwardly.

“Have you heard anything of Harper
yet?” he asked.

"I don’t want to talk to you,” re¬
plied the woman.

Hubbard turned on his heeL Waiting
for him by his horses, was the deputy
sheriff. The two further discussed the
disappearance.

“If you yourself wasn’t so well
known, Jeremiah,” finally declared the
official, “they’d sure be thinkin’ you

“Why?” grunted the farmer, as he
untied the lines.

“Well, everybody knows you an’ Har¬
per been Iawin’ it- for years over that
boundary line.”

Hubbard achieved a laugh.

“I’ll tell ye where Harper is. He’s
cleared out, that’s what I think—desert¬
ed his family.”

That night, and many following
nights, Hubbard did not sleep. Some
weeks later a tremendous electric storm
broke in the night One particularly
heavy clap so startled the wakeful Hub¬
bard that he leaped from his bed and
dressed. In the pouring rain he started

Inevitably his steps took him toward
the well. It was black, and he could not
see at first But another flash came, and
he observed a strange thing:

The huge oak, standing at the side of
the well, had been split in two by light¬
ning, and one portion of the tree had
fallen over the mouth of the hole.

■^■EXT MORNING Simpson, the man

' with the “tin Lizzie,” stopped at
Hubbard’s place. He was a blunt-
spoken, red-faced man whom Hubbard
hated.

“That was a bad storm last night,”
he said. “The lightning struck the big
oak tree by the well.”

“What of it?” snapped Hubbard.

“There was a skeleton in the center
of that tree,” explained Simpson. “I
was talking this morning with the
sheriff over the telephone. He said
seventy-five years ago a man was mur¬
dered in Ovid, and they neyer found his
body. This skeleton must be his.”

Hubbard cleared his throat sharply.

“What did you do with it?”

THE WELL

“The skull and one of the leg bones
fell down into the well when I tried to
gather them up. I want to borrow some
rope so I can down in there.”

-For a bare second Hubbard was silent.

“What you ought to do,” he said,
gathering himself, “is to fill up that
hole. It’s dangerous.”

“Yea That’s so. But I’m goin’ to
get that skull first. It’ll be a good ex¬
hibit. I’m wonderin’ whether we’ll
ever find Harper’s skeleton.”

“Wait a moment,” said Hubbard
huskily, starting for the bam. “I’ll get
some rope and help you.”

The two returned to the Eldridge
farm. They found there the dead man’s
child. She had perched herself on the
fallen tree.

“Damn fool!” muttered Hubbard.
“Her mother lettin’ her play around
herel”

A pulley was rigged over the branch
and the rope inserted with a board for
a rest.

“I’ll go down,” vouchsafed Hubbard.

Simpson looked his surprise as he as-

It took Hubbard five minutes or so
to retrieve the missing skeleton parts.
He brought them up, the leg bone and
the grinning skull. He was pale when
he hauled himself over the edge.

“I’m a-goin’ to fill up that hole my¬
self,” he said.

“All right,” retorted Simpson, handl¬
ing the skull curiously. “Go to it.”

Word traveled of the finding of the
ancient skeleton, and the inhabitants be¬
gan driving thither to see the sight
Simpson, a man of some ingenuity, had
wired the bleached white bones together
and suspended them from one of the
branches of the fallen tree. The skele¬
ton dangled and swung in the wind.

Hubbard, maddened by the delay and
publicity, felt himself wearing away. He
had become obsessed with conviction that
if the hole were filled his mind would

The nights of continued sleeplessness
were ragging his nerves, and he was by
this time unable to remain in bed. He
would throw himself down, fully
dressed, waiting until the others were
asleep. Then he would steal out.

At first he had merely walked the
roads, swinging his arms and mumbling.
But as the night progressed his stride
would quicken, and frequently he would
take to running. He would run until his
lungs were bursting and a slaver fed
from his mouth. Late travelers began
to catch glimpses of the fleeting figure,
and the rumor grew that a ghost was
haunting the locality of the well—that
the skeleton walked.

Hubbard grew haggard. But he
found himself unable to discontinue his
nocturnal prowls, some of which took
him miles, but all of which invariably
wound up at one place—the well.

Here, fagged and exhausted, he would
sit until the approach of dawn, staring
at the swinging skeleton, mouthing in-
eoherencies, praying, singing hymns be¬
neath his breath, laughing. At the ap¬
proach of dawn he would steal home.

At last, after interest in the skeleton
has subsided and Simpson had consented
to its removal, Hubbard loaded his
wagon with stones and small boulders
and started for the well. That first fore¬
noon he made three trips, dumping each
time a considerable quantity of stones.

Next morning he worked in an addi¬
tional trip. He began to experience sur¬
cease. But, on the afternoon of the sec¬
ond day, when he made another trip,
Simpson came over from his work in an
adjoining field

“I wanted to see you yesterday,” he
said, quizzically regarding Hubbard.
“Mrs. Harper was here. She said her
little girl was playin’ around here and
dropped a pair of andirons down the
well.”

“What of it?” Hubbard jerked out

“You got to get ’em out”

“Why?”

“Because them andirons is relics.”

“But you gave me permission to fill
the hole.”

“I was kiddin’ you,” laughed Simp¬
son. “I’m only rentin’ the farm. I ain’t
got nothin’ to do with the house and

Without a word Hubbard turned to
his wagon. He got onto the seat and
drove off. In an hour he came back
with the same rope that had been used
to recover the missing portions of the
skeleton. Also, he brought with him a

farm laborer who did occasional work
for him.

Simpson regarded Hubbard amusedly
as the latter adjusted once more the pul¬
ley, arranged a bucket and then hitched
his team to the end of the rope.

Patiently, bucketful by bucketful, the
stones were elevated and dumped. Down
below in the black interior, Hubbard
labored for an hour. At six o’clock he
had not found the andirons. Twice he
had been compelled to come up for fresh
air.

His last trip up left him so white¬
faced and weak that he was forced to
go home.

That night he resorted to sleeping
powders. But he lay and tossed, wide-
eyed, through the dark houra. Some¬
time after midnight he got up. A light
was still burning in his wife’s room,
and, tiptoeing down the hall, he paused
at her door. In low voices the mother
and daughter were conversing. To his
heated imagination it seemed certain
they were talking of Harper’s disap¬
pearance.

Mumbling to himself he left the house;
He ran down the lane to the highway
and along this until he came to the El¬
dridge place. He determined not to stop,
and succeeded in rufining by, like a
frightened animal.

His gait accelerated. It was one best
described as scurrying, as he ran
crouched and low. He thought he saw
some one approaching. This turned
him. Back he fled with the speed of the
wind.

Drawn by an irresistible force, he
made straight for the Eldridge pathway.
He came to the well, the entrance of
which gaped at him. For a moment he
stood, with eyes wide open, staring into
the black depths.

Then, screaming, he plunged in head¬
first

His ery, long-drawn and eerie, hung
quivering on the night air.

In the Hubbard home, a quarter of a
mile away, the mother and daughter
heard it The two listened with palpi¬
tating hearts. They caught' one an¬
other’s hands.

^Jn a hoarse whisper the mother ex-

“What’s fhatt”-

Otis Adelbert Kline, Author of “The Thing of a Thousand ShapesSpins
Another “Spooky” Yam for the Readers of WEIRD TALES

The Phantom Wolfhound

The slender, stoop-slionldered individ¬
ual who accompanied him was a total
stranger. He had pale, hawklike fea¬
tures, small snaky eyes that glittered
oddly from cavernous sockets, and long,
bony fingers that suggested the claws of
a bird.

“Hello, Doc,” boomed the detective
genially, crushing the hand of his host
in his great, muscular paw. “Meet Mr.
Bitsky.”

said Hoyne, taking a proffered cigar and
inserting it far back in his cheek, un¬
lighted. “Just your specialty—ghosts
and all that. I told Mr. Bitsky you’d be
the only man to unravel the mystery for
him. Was over to his house last night
and the thing got me—too unsubstantial
—too damned elumvely unreal And yet
I’ll swear there was something there. I
heard it; but it got away and didn’t
leave a trace. When it comes to finger

“What happened last night?’* h6

“Maybe we better begin at the begin¬
ning,” said Hoync. “You sec, there’s
quite a story goes along with this case,
and Mr. Bitsky can tdl it better than I.
Don’t be afraid to give him all the dope,
Mr. Bitsky. The doctor knows all about
such things—wrote a book about ’em, in
fact. Let’s see. What was the name
of that book, Doct”

E PHANTON -WOLFHOUND

61

“ ‘Investigations of Materialization
Phenoniena.’ ”

“Righto! I never can remember it.
Anyhow, Mr. Ritsky, tell him yonr story
and ask him all the questions you want
to. He’s headquarters on this stuff.”

Ritsky studied his clawlike hands for a
moment, clasping and unclasping the
bony fingers. Suddenly he looked up.

“Do animals have immortal souls!”
he asked, anxiously.

“I’m afraid you have sadly overrated
my ability as a recorder of scientific
facts,” replied the doctor, smiling
slightly. “Frankly, I do not know. I
don’t believe anyone knows. Most people
think they haven’t, and I incline toward
that belief.”

“Then such a thing as a ghost of a—a
hound could not be!”

“I would not say that. Nothing is
impossible. There are undoubtedly more
things in heaven and earth, as Shake¬
speare said, than we have dreamed of in
our philosophy. However, I would con¬
sider a materialization of the disem¬
bodied spirit of a canine, or any of the
other lower animals, as highly improb¬
able.”

“But if you saw one with your own
eyes—”

“I should probably be inclined to
doubt the evidence of my senses. Have

“Have I seen one!” groaned Ritsky.
“Good Lord, man, I’d give every cent I
own to be rid of that thing! For two
years it’s turned my nights into hell!
From a perfectly healthy, normal human
being I’ve been reduced to a physical
wreck. Sometimes I think my reason is
slipping. The thing will either kill me
or drive me mad if it is not stopped.”

He buried his face in his hands.

“This is most strange,” said the
doctor. “You say the apparition first
troubled you two years ago!”

“Not in its present form. But it was
thW, nevertheless. The first time I saw
it was shortly after I killed that cursed
dog. A month, to be exact. I shot him
on the twenty-first of August, and he, or
it, or somethin!;, came back to haunt me
on the twenty-first of September.

“How vividly I remember the im¬
pressions of that first night of terror 1
How I tried, the next day, to make my¬
self believe it was only a dream—that
snch u thing could not bo. I had re¬
tired at eleven o’clock, and was awak¬
ened from a sound sleep some time be¬
tween one and two in the morning by
the whining, yapping cry of a dog. As
there were no dogs on the premises, you
can imagine my surprise.

“I was about to get up when some¬
thing directly over the foot of my bed

riveted my attention. In the dim light
it appeared a grayish white in color, and
closely resembled the head and pendant
ears of a hound. I noticed, with horror,
that it was moving slowly toward me,
and I was temporarily paralyzed with
fright when it emitted a low, cavernous

“Driving my muscles by a supreme
effort of will, I leaped from the bed and
switched on the light. In the air where
I had seen the thing hanging there was
nothing. The door was bolted and the
windows were screened. There was noth¬
ing unusual in the room, as I found after
a thorough search. Mystified, I hunted
through the entire house from top to
bottom, but without finding a trace of
the thing, whatever it was, that had
made the sounds.

“From that day to this I have never
laid my head on a pillow with a feeling
of security. At first it visited me at in¬
tervals of about a week. These intervals
were gradually shortened until it came
every night. As its visits became more
frequent the apparition seemed to grow.
First it sprouted a small body like that
of a terrier, all out of proportion to
the huge head. Each night that body
grew a little larger until it assumed the
full proportions of a Russian wolfhound.
Recently it has attempted to attack me,
but I have always frustrated it by
switching on the light.”

“Are you positive that you have not
been dreaming all this!” asked the

“Would it be possible for some one
else to hear a dream of mine!” count¬
ered Ritsky. “We have only been able
to retain one servant on account of
those noises. All, with the exception of
our housekeeper, who is quite deaf,
heard the noises and left us as a result.”

“Who are the members of your house¬
hold!”

“Other than the housekeeper and my-

girl of twelve.”

“Has she heard the noisQs!”

“She has never mentioned them.”

“Why not move to another apart¬
ment!”

“That would do no good. We have
moved five times in the last two years.
When the thing first started we were
living on the estate of my niece near
Lake Forest. We left the place In
charge of care-takers and moved to
Evanston. The apparition followed us.
We moved to Englewood. The thing
moved with us. We have had three
different apartments in Chicago since. It
came to all of them with equal regu-

“Woutd you mind writing for me the

' ‘ Not at all, if they will assist in solv¬
ing this mystery.”

The doctor procured a pencil and a
sheet of note paper, and Ritsky put down
the addresses.

Doctor Dorp scanned them carefully.

“Villa Rogers,” he said. “Then your
niece is Olga Rogers, daughter of mil¬
lionaire James Rogers and his beautiful
wife, the former Russian dancer, both
of whom were lost with the Titanic!”

'‘Olga’s mother was my sister. After
the sudden death of her parents, the
court appointed me her guardian and
trustee of the estate. ’ ’

“I believe that is all the information
we need for the present, Mr. Ritsky. If
you have no objection I will call on you
after dinner this evening, and if Mr.
Hoyne cares to accompany me we will
see what we can do toward solving this
mystery. Please take care that no one
in your home is apprised of the object
of our visit. Say, if you wish, that we
are going to install some electrical equip-

“I’ll be there with bells,” said Hoyne
as they rose to go.

U.

CHORTLY after his guests’ departure,
^ Doctor Dorp was speeding out
Sheridan Road toward Villa Rogers.

The drive took nearly an hour, and he
spent another half-hour in questioning
the care-takers, man and wife. He re¬
turned home with a well-filled notebook,
and on his arrival he began immediately
assembling paraphernalia for the eve¬
ning’s work. This consisted of three
cameras with specially constructed shut¬
ters, several small electrical mechanisms,
a coil of insulated wire, a flash-gun, and
a kit of tools.

After dinner he picked up Hoyne at
his home, and they started for the
“haunted house.”

“You say you investigated this case
last night, Hoyne!” asked the doctor.

“I tried to, but there was nothing to
it, so far as I could see, except the whin¬
ing of that dog.”

“ Where were you when you heard the

“Ritsky had retired. I slept in a
chair in his room. About two o’clock I
was awakened by a whining noise, not
loud, yet distinctly audible. Then I
heard a yell from Ritsky. He switched
on the light a moment later, then sat
down on the bed, trembling from head to
foot, while beads of perspiration stood
out on his forehead.

“ ‘Did you see it!’ he asked me.

“ ‘See what!’ I said.

WEIRD TALES

“ 'The hound.’

"I told him I hadn’t seen a thing, but
I heard the noise all right. Between you
and me, though, I did think I saw a
white flash for a second beside his bed,

“We won’t trust our eyes tonight,”
said the doctor. “I have three eyes in
that case that will not be affected by
hysteria or register hallucinations.”

“Three eyes! What are you talking

“Wait until we get there. I’ll show

A few moments later they were ad¬
mitted to the apartment by the house¬
keeper, a stolid woman of sixty or there¬
about. Ritsky presented, them to his
niece, a dreamy-eyed, delicately pretty
school girl with silky golden curls that
glistened against the pale whiteness of

“If you don’t mind,” said the doctor,

take some time to install the wiring and
make other necessary preparations.”

Ritsky showed them through the
apartment, which was roomy, furnished
in good taste and artistically decorated.
The floor plan was quite simple and ordi¬
nary. First came the large living-room
that extended across the front of the
house. This opened at the right into the
dining-room and at the center into a
hallway which led through to the back
of the building. Behind the dining¬
room was the kitchen, and behind that
the servant’s room. Ritsky’s bedroom
was directly across the hall from the
dining-room. Then came his 1 niece’s bed¬
room, a spare bedroom and a bathroom.
Each of the three front bedrooms was
equipped with a private bath and large
dothes-eloset.

The doctor began by installing the
three cameras in Ritsky’s room, fasten¬
ing them on the wall in such a manner
that they faced the hed from three di¬
rections. After focusing them properly,
he set the flash-gun on a collapsible
tripod and pointed it toward the bed.

The room was lighted by an alabaster
bowl that depended from the ceiling and
could be turned on or off by a switch at
the bedside. There were, in addition,
two wall lights, one on each side of the
dresser, and a small reading lamp on a
table in one corner. These last three
lights were operated by individual pull-

Ritsky procured a step-ladder for him,
and, after switching off the drop light,
he removed one of the bulbs from the
cluster and inserted a four-way socket.
From this socket he ran wires along the

ceiling .and down the. wall to the three
cameras and the flash-gun. By the time
these preparations were completed Miss
Rogers and the housekeeper had retired.

Hoyne surveyed the finished job with
frank admiration.

“If there’s anything in this room
when Ritsky turns the switch those three
mechanical eyes will sure spot it,” he
said enthusiastically.

“Now, Mr. Ritsky,” began the doctor,
“I want you to place yourself entirely
in our hands for the night. Keep cool,
fear nothing, and carry out my instruc¬
tions to the letter. I suggest that you
go to bed now and endeavor to get some
sleep. If the apparition troubles you,
do just as you have done in the past—
turn on the light. Do not, however,
touch the light switch unless the thing
appears. The photographic plates, when
developed, will tell whether you have
been suffering from a mere hallucina¬
tion induced by auto-suggestion or if
genuine materialisation phenomena have
occurred.”

After closing and bolting the windows
they placed the step-ladder in the hall¬
way beside Ritsky’s door. Then they

asked him to lock himself in, removing
his key so they might gain entrance at
any time.

When everything was ready they
quietly brought two Chairs into the hall
from the spare bedroom and began their
silent vigil.

III.

130TH MEN sat in silence for nearly
* three hours. The doctor seemed lost
in thought, and Hoyne nervously masti¬
cated his inevitable unlighted cigar. The
house was quiet, except for the ticking
of the hall clock and its hourly chiming
announcements of the flight of time.

Shortly after the clock struck two they
heard alow, scarcely audible moan.

“What was that?” whispered the de¬
tective, hoarsely.

“Wait!” the doctor replied.

Presently it was repeated, followed by
prolonged sobbing.

“It’s Miss Rogers,” said Hoyne, ex-

Doctor Dorp rose and softly tiptoed
to the door of the child’s bed chamber.
After listening there for a moment he
noiselessly opened the door arid entered.
Presently he returned, leaving the door
ajar. The sobbing and moaning con¬
tinued.

“Just as I expected,” he said. “I
want you to go in the child’s room, keep
quiet, and make a mental note of every¬
thing you see and hear. Stay there

until I call you, and be prepared for
a startling sight,”

“Wh—what is it?” asked Hoyne,
nervously.

“Nothing that will hurt you. What’s
the matter? Are you afraid?”

“Afraid, hell!” growled Hoyne.
“Can’t a man ask you a question—”

“No time to answer questions now.
Get in there and do as I say if you want

"All right, Doc. It’s your party.”

The big detective entered the room of
the sobbing child and squeezed his great
bulk into a dainty rocking chair from
which he could view her bed. She
tossed from side to side, moaning as if in
pain, and Hoyne, pitying her, wondered
why the doctor did not awaken her.

Presently she ceased her convulsive
movements, clenched her hands, and
uttered a low, gurgling cry, as a white,
filmy mass slowly emerged from between
her lips. The amazed detective stared
with open mouth, so frightened that he
forgot to chew his cigar. The filmy
material continued to pour forth for
several minutes that seemed like hours to
the tense watcher. Then it formed a
nebulous, wispy cloud above the bed,
completely detached itself from the girl,
and floated out through the half-opened

“Doctor Dorp, standing in the hall¬
way, saw a white, misty thing of indefi¬
nite outline emerge from the bedroom. It
floated through the hall and paused di¬
rectly in front of Ritsky’s door. He ap¬
proached it cautiously and noiselessly,
and noticed that it grew rapidly smaller.
Then he discovered the reason. It was
flowing through the keyhole!

In a short time it had totally disap¬
peared. He waited breathlessly.

What urns that? The whining cry of
a hound broke the stillness! He mounted
the step-ladder in order to view the in¬
terior of the room through the glass
transom. He had scarcely placed his
foot on the second step when the whin¬
ing noise changed to a gurgling growl
that was followed by a shriek of mortal
terror and the dull report of the flash-

Leaping down from the ladder, the
doctor called Hoyne, and they entered
the “haunted” bed chamber. The room
was brilliantly lighted by the alabaster
bowl and filled with the sickening fumes
of flash-powder.

Hoyne opened the windows and re¬
turned to where the doctor was thought¬
fully viewing Ritsky, who had apparent¬
ly fainted. He had fallen half out of
bed, and. hung there with one bony arm
trailing and his emaciated face a picture
of abject fear.

THE PHANTON WOLFHOUND

“My God!” exclaimed Hoyna “Look
there on hie throat and chest The
frothy slaver of a hound!’’

The doctor took a small porcelain dish
from his pocket, removed the lid, and
with the blade of his pocket knife,
scraped part of the slimy deposit into
the receptacle.

“Hadn’t we better try to bring him
tot” inquired Hoyne.

After they had lifted him back in bed
the doctor leaned over and held Sis ear
to the breast of the recumbent man. He
took his stethoscope from his case and
listened again; Then he straightened

‘ 'No earthly power can bring him to,”
he said, softly. “Bitshy is dead!”

TV.

ripHE DETECTIVE remained in the
-*■ house, pending the arrival of the
coroner and undertaker, while Doctor
Dorp hurried home with his parapher¬
nalia and the sample of slime he had
scraped from the corpse. Hoyne was
puzzled by the fact that the doctor
searched the house and the clothing of
the dead man before departing.

The detective was kept busy at the
Ritsky apartment until nearly ten
o’clock. After stopping at a restaurant
for a bit of breakfast and a cup of coffee,
he went directly to the doctor’s home.

He found the psychologist in his lab¬
oratory, engrossed in a complicated
chemical experiment. He shook a test
tube, which he had been heating over a
small alcohol lamp, held it up to the
light, stood it in a small rack in which
were a number of others partly filled
with liquid, and nodded cordially to his
friend.

“Morning, Doc.” greeted Hoyne.
“Have you doped out what we are going
to tell the coroner yett”

“I knew the direct cause of Rifeky’s
death long ago. It was fear. The in¬
direct cause, the thing that induced the
fear, required careful examination and
considerable chemical research.”

"And it was-”

“Psychoplasm.”

“I don’t get you, Doc. What is
psychoplasm 1”

“No doubt you have heard of the sub¬
stance called ectoplasm, regarding which
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has delivered
numerous lectures, or an identical sub¬
stance called teleplasm, discovered by
Baron Von Schrenck Notzing while at¬
tending materialization seances with the
medium known as Eva.

“While the baron was observing anC
photographing this substance in Europe,
my friend and colleague, Professor
James Braddock, was conducting similar

investigations in this country. He
named the substance psychoplasm, and I
like the name better than either of the
other two, as it is undoubtedly created
or generated from invisible particles of
matter through the power of the subjec¬
tive mind.

“I have examined and analyzed many
samples of this substance in the past.
The plate I now have under the com¬
pound microscope, and the different
chemical determinations I have just
completed, show conclusively that this
is psychoplasm.”

“But how—where did it come from!”

“I learned something of the history
of Ritsky and his ward yesterday. Let
me enlighten you on that score first:

“The man told the truth when he said
he was appointed guardian of his niece,
and also when he said that he had shot
a dog. The dog, in question, was a
Russian wolfhound, a present sent to
the girl by her parents while they were
touring Russia. He was only half grown
when he arrived, and the two soon be-

playing about the grounds together or
romping through the big house.

“Some time after the death of Olga’s
parents, Ritsky, then editor of a radical
newspaper in New York, took up his
abode at Villa Rogers. The dog, by that
time full grown, took a violent dislike to
him and, on one occasion, bit him quite,
severely. When he announced his inten¬
tion of having the animal shot the girl
wept violently and swore that she would
kill herself if Shag, as she had named
him, were killed. It seemed that she
regarded him as a token of the love of
her parents who had sailed away, never

“Shag! That’s the name!” broke in
Hoyne, excitedly. “After that white
thing floated out of the room she made
noises like a dog and then answered
them, saying ‘Good old Shag,’ and pat¬
ting an imaginary head. She sure gave
me the creeps, though, when she let out
that growl.”

“The vengeful Ritsky,” continued the
doctor, “was determined that Shag
should die, and found an opportunity to
shoot him with a pistol when the girl
was in the house. Shortly after, the
faithful creature draggefi himself to the
feet of his mistress and died in her arms.
He could not tell her who had taken his
life, but she must have known subjective¬
ly, and as a result entertained a hatred
for her unde of which she objectively
knew nothing.

“Most people have potential medium-
istie power. How this power is devel-
oped in certain individuals and remains
practically dormant in others is a ques¬

tion that has never been satisfactorily
explained. I personally bdieve that it
is often developed because of intense
emotional repressions which, unable to
find an outlet in a normal manner
through the objective mind, find expres¬
sion in abnormal psychic manifestations.

“This seemed to be the case with Olga
Rogers. She developed the power sub¬
jectively without objective knowledge
that it existed. One of the most strik¬
ing of psychic powers is that of creating
or assembling the substance called
psychoplasm, causing it to assume vari¬
ous forms, and to move as if endowed

“Olga devdoped this peculiar power
to a remarkable degree. Acting under
the direction of her subjective intelli¬
gence, the substance assumed the form
of her beloved animal companion and
sought revenge on its slayer. We ar¬
rived a day too late to save the object
of her unconsdous hatred.”

“Too bad you were not there the night
before,” said Hoyne. “The poor devil
would be alive today if you had been on
hand with me the first night to dope the
thing out.”

“We might have saved him for a
prison term or the gallows,” replied the
doctor, a bit sardonically. “You haven’t
seen this, of course.”

He took d small silver pencil from the
table and handed it to the detective.

“What’s that got to do with—”

“Open it! Unscrew the top. Careful!”

Hoyne unscrewed it gingerly and saw
that the chamber, which was made to
hold extra leads, was filled with a white

“Arsenic,” said the doctor, briefly.
“Did you notice the sickly pallor of that
girl—the dark rings under her eyes!
Her loving uncle and guardian was
slowly poisoning her, increasing the
doses from time to time. In another
month or six weeks she would have been
dead, and Ritsky, her nearest living rela¬
tive, would have inherited her immense
fortune.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” exploded

Doctor Dorp’s laboratory assistant, en¬
tered and handed a package of prints
to his employer.

“Here arc the proofs of last night's
photographs,” said the doctor. “Care
to see them!”

Hoyne took them to the window and
scrutinized them carefully.

All showed Ititsky leaning out of bed,
his hand on the light switch, his face
contorted in an expression of intense
horror— and, gripping his throat in its
ugly jaws, teas the while, misshapen
phantasm, of a huge Russian wolfhound!

MASTERPIECES OF WEIRD FICTION

No. 2—The Murders in the Rue Morgue
By EDGAR ALLAN POE

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Kilted Wraith and Bagpipe Spook Communicate
With Spiritualists

Here’s the Final, Thrilling Installment of

THE MOON TERROR

THE MOON TERROR 78

“Here he is, fellows! Quick wife that
rope!”

With leaping heart, I recognized the
voice aa Dr- Gresham’s!

An instant later a rope with a loop
in the end of if dangled beside me, and
a number of hands reached out to pull
me to safety. Another moment, and I
was drawn over the brink—not one
second too soon, for as I made the last
dozen feet the closing walls of the pit
brushed my body.

Exhausted and trembling, I sank upon
the ground, while a number of figures
crowded about me. These proved to be
twenty-five men from the Albatross,
under command of Ensign Wiles Hal¬
lock. They were.all dressed in the dark
blue garments of the sorcerers. How
they came to be there was briefly related
by Dr. Gresham.

When the ground had opened beneath
us earlier in the evening, the astronomer
had clutched the roots of a tree, and
within a few seconds after 1 had dropped
from sight he was back on firm ground.
The Chinamen who had been pursuing
ns had either fallen into the gash or had
fled in terror.

Considerable vapor was rising from
the pit, but the scientist noticed that
this was clearing rapidly, so he decided
to linger at the spot awhile, with the
forlorn hope that I might be found. Soon
the vapor vanished and, as the moonlight
was shining directly into the crack, the
doctor began a search.

After a time he discerned a figure ly¬
ing upon a ledge below. Close scrutiny
revealed that the dark costume charac¬
teristic of the Seucn-H’sm was torn, dis¬
playing an orange garment beneath.

Confident that none of the sorcerers
would be wearing two suits at once in
this fashion, the scientist concluded the
figure was mine. For a time ho doubted
whether I lived, but eventually he
thought he saw me stir feebly, where¬
upon he began frantic efforts to reach

Repealed attempts to descend the pre¬
cipice failed. Then he tried dropping
pebbles to arouse me. Again unsuccess¬
ful, he risked attracting the sorcerers
back to tho spot by shouting into the

All his efforts proved futile, so he
finally returned to the destroyer and ob¬
tained this resone party.

In grateful silence I gripped Mb hand.

“Now,” the astronomer concluded,
“if you are able to walk, we will get
back to the ship. It ie only 1 o’clock,
and if we hurry there still is time to at¬
tack the Seuen-H’sin before daylight,

Conditions throughout the world are so
alarming that we must put tMs power
plant out of business without delay 1”

“Go ahead!” I assented. “I’m able
to hobble along!”

It was less than two miles to the de¬
stroyer’s anchorage, they said. During
the march none of the sorcerers was
sighted, with wMcb we began to con¬
clude that the cracking of the earth had
affected the village on the other side of
the mountain so that all their lookouts
had been called in.

But suddenly, when we were less than
half a mile from the vessel, the still¬
ness of the night was shattered by the
shrill blast of a whistle. A series of
other wild shrieks from the steam chant
came in quick succession.

“The Albatross.'” exclaimed Ensign
Hallock. “Something’s happening!”

We burst into a run—the whistle still
screaming through the night

AU at once the sound ceased, and aa
the echoes died out among the hills we
heard the rattle of firearms.

“An attack!” cried Hallock. “The
sorcerers have attacked the ship!”

Then, abruptly, the firing, too, died

A few moments later we emerged
from the ravine onto the bank of the
fiord and into full view of the destroyer.
The passing of the moon into the west
had brought the vessel within its rays—
and the sight that greeted us almost
froze our blood!

Swarming about the deck were dozens
of Chinamen—some with rifles, some
with knives. They appeared to be com¬
pletely in control of the ship. Numerous
pairs of them were coming up from be¬
low decks, carrying the bodies of the
vessel’s crew, which they carelessly
tossed overboard. Evidently they had
taken our companions by surprise and
wiped them out!

At this sight. Ensign HaDock and his
men became frenzied with rage.

“Ready, men!” the officer announced
to Ms followers. “We’re going down
there and give those murderers some¬
thing to remember!”

Eagerly the seamen prepared to
charge the 3Mp. But Dr. Gresham
stopped them.

“It’s no use,” he said. “There are
hundreds of the sorcerers down there—
and only a handful of us. You would
only be throwing away your lives and
defeating the whole purpose of this ex¬
pedition. We must find a better way.”

The astronomer’s counsel prevailed.
Whereupon we debated what should be
done. The situation was desperate.
Here we were, completely isolated in a

grim wilderness, hundreds of miles from
help, and surrounded by hordes of sav¬
age fanatics. Soon, no doubt, the sor¬
cerers’ spies would find ns. And, mean¬
while, we were helpless to put an end
to the terrors that were engulfing the
planet and its inhabitants.

So despair gradually took possession
of us. Not even the customary resource¬
fulness of Dr. Gresham rose to the

Suddenly Ensign Hallock gave an ex¬
clamation of excitement.

‘•The Nippont" he burst out. “Let’s
turn the tables on the Chinese, and seize
the Nippont She’s probably got a guard
on board, but maybe we can take it by
surprise!”

“What could we do with her!” I ob¬
jected. “She needs a large crew—and
there are only twenty-Beven of us!”

“We’ll sail her away, of course!” re¬
plied the young naval officer with en¬
thusiasm. “There must be fuel on
board, for ber fires are going. Three of
the boys here are apprentice engineers.
I can do the navigating. And the rest
of yon can take turns stoking the boil¬
ers!”

“But how could wo slip past the AU
bgtrosst” asked Dr. Gresham.

Ensign Hallock seemed to have
thought of that, too, for he promptly
answered:

“The Albatross is an oil-burning
craft, with the new type of burners that
came into use since these Chinks have
been stowed away here in tho wilder¬
ness. The mechanism for using the oil
is quite complicated, and the sorcerers
are likely to have trouble operating her
until they figure out the system. If we
reach them before they have time to
master the thing, they will- he helpless
to stop ns!”

The young man’s enthusiasm was con¬
tagious. Dr. Gresham began to give
heed.

“Even if we fail to get away in the
Nippon,” the scientist admitted, “she
hss a powerful wireless outfit: Kwo-
Suhg-tao has been using it to communi¬
cate with WasMngton. With that radio
in our hands for ten minntes, we can
summon help sufficient to anniMIalo
these yellow dovils!”

The plan was adopted without further
question. And, believing that the sor¬
cerers’ easy victory over the Albatross
had made them careless, perhaps, we
struck out in as direct a course as pos¬
sible for the spot at-wMch the Nippon

In twenty minutes, without sighting
any of the ertemy, we arrived at the edge
of the timber behind the wharf.

THE MOON TERROR

“Good!” assdnted the scientist. “They
are less likely to be on guard against
an attack from that side, anyway!”

Day was now beginning to break,
which made farther navigation easy. In
a few minutes we came to the tributary
inlet, and swung the vessel in between
its high, constricted walls.

The ensign was now imbued with
marvelous activity. Orders flew thick
and fast. A couple of the machine guns
were made ready for land transport.
Two light mountain mortars and a
quantity of ammunition were brought
up on deck. A supply of shrapnel hand
grenades was distributed among the men.

Our progress through this tortuous

This tr

is fall of the !

After a quick look around, Ensign
Hallock chose a spot a little back from
the cliff to set up the mortars that were
to throw explosives upon the building.
He also prepared to place mines under
the conduits. But first the machine guns
were planted to command the surround¬
ing timber, in case of an attack.

There still was no indication that the

it the end of an hour and a half,
the destroyer was stopped and we made
ready for the final adventure.

It was decided that all fifteen of us
should go, because less than that number
could not carry our equipment up and
down the steep mountainsides, and three
or four men left to guard the ship would
be utterly useless in the event of an

So, with every nerve alert, we struek
out through the trackless wilderness.

Three hours later we came upon sis:
large steel conduits which we knew must
eimvey the water power to the plant, and
in a few minutes we had followed these

Here we found ourselves upon the
brow of a promontory directly behind
and fully 300 feet above the Seuen-
H’sin’s workshop. The promontory end¬
ed in a sheer precipice, from the outer¬
most curve of which the conduits drop¬
ped straight down into the powerhouse.

of water supplied the enormous energy
to the turbines. The summit of this pro¬
jecting ridge was fairly level, and for
a distance of perhaps seventy-five yards
at the end the timber had been entirely
cleared away.

Extending out from the brow of the
precipice, and resting upon the tops of
the conduits where they plunged down¬
ward, was a narrow bridge of iron
lattice-work which connected all six of
the pipes and gave access to the bolts
which tightened the steel elbows.
Through holes in this grating, iron lad¬
ders fastened between the pipes and the
granite cliff back of them descended
dear to the bottom of the'precipice.

A slight rail only three feet high pro¬
tected the outer edge of this grid—a
little hand-hold for the workmen in case
of a misstep. From this dizzy balcony
it would be possible to drop a stone al¬
most upon the roof of the powerhouse.

vicinity; so, inasmuch as Hallock said
bis preparations would take some little
time. Dr. Gresham determined to employ
the interval in getting a closer look at
the power plant.

One of the ladders down the precipice,
he had noticed, was in such a position
behind its water main that it could not
be seen from the building; and he de¬
cided to attempt the approach by this
means. To my delight, he made no ob¬
jection to my accompanying him.

As we slipped through an opening in
the iron bridge and started our dizzy
descent of the ladder—which seemed to
sway beneath our weight—I felt a thrill
of exultation, in spite of our peril, at

ble power over our planet!

The trip was slow and risky, but final¬
ly we came abreast of a window in the
rear wall of the building, and by
stretching around the side of the thick
water main we could see into the place.

The workshop of the sorcerers was a
long, low, narrow structure directly be¬
side the river. Dike the houses back in
the Chinese village, it was a mere shell
of corrugated iron, its steel framework
so bolted together that it could sway with
the earth tremors.

In a row down the centre of the struc¬
ture were six huge turbines, operating
electric generators.

Along one side of the room was the
largest switchboard I had ever seen,
while the whole of the other lengthwise
wall was flanked with a series of massive
induction coils, elaborately insulated
from'each other and from the ground.
Although I knew little about electricity,
I was certain that if the combined
electrical output of those dynamos were
directed through that maze of coils, the
resulting voltage could only be measured
in the millions—perhaps hundreds of
millions!

From one large, enclosed object, sup¬
ported on steel uprights over the row of
induction coils, two electric cables, more
than two inches in diameter, ran off
through the north end of the building.
One of these ended in a tiny structure
about eighty yards from the powerhouse.
The other ran on up the valley.

But, most curious of all, in the center
of the switchboards was an apparatus
surmounted by a large clock, before
which a Chinese attendant sat constant¬
ly. Precisely every eleven minutes and
six seconds a bell on this clock clanged
sharply, and there was a bright flash
in a long glass tube, followed by an
earth shock.

For some time we clung there in the
shadows, while Dr. Gresham studied
every detail of the amazing workshop.
Then, calling my attention to the fact
that the place outside the powerhouse,
where one of the cables ended, was
hidden from view of the attendants in¬
side by a thick clump of trees, the astron¬
omer said he wanted a closer look at this

Creeping through the timber, wc
reached the tiny structure over the
cable’s end. Not the slightest watch.
BCemed to bo kept anywhere about the
plant. The door to the house was not
fastened, so we entered and looked hur¬
riedly about.

The room was absolutely empty except
for the heavy cable, which came to the
center of the floor and there connected
with a copper post about four inches in
diameter that ran straight down into the
ground.

Without lingering further, we crawled
back to the ladder and commenced our
long climb up the cliff.

Upon reaching the top again, we
found the ensign and his men still busy
with their preparations for the bombard¬
ment. Withdrawing far enough to be
out of their hearing, the astronomer
turned to me and remarked:

“Well, what do you think of the
scientific achievements of the sorcerers

“I don’t know what to think!” I re¬
plied. “It’s utterly beyond my compre¬
hension!”

The doctor chuckled at my dismay.

“Forgive me,” he said, “for having
kept you so long in the dark. Until today
I could never prove my theories—certain
as I was of their correctness—and I did
not wish to attempt any explanations
until I was sure of my ground. But now
you have seen enough to understand the
solution of the puzzle.”

To my delight, the scientist was drop¬
ping into one of his most communicative
moods. After a moment he went on:

“To comprehend, even in a general
way, what the Seuen-H ’sin has done, you
must understand the principle of reso-

“ Let us start with the swinging pen¬
dulum of a clock. What keeps it in
motion ? Nothing but a slight push, de¬
livered at exactly the right time. Any

TO

swinging object can be kept swinging,
even though it weigh many tons, if it
is given a touch by the finger of a baby
St just the right moment. By the same
principle, the amount of swing can be
increased enormously if the successive
pushes are correctly timed.

“But we need not limit our illustra¬
tion, to swinging objects. Everything in
the word has a natural period of vibra¬
tion, whether it be a violin string, or
a battleship, or a forty-story skyscraper.

“Fifty men can capsize a twenty-
thousand-ton battleship merely by run¬
ning back and forth from one side of the
deck to the other and carefully timing
their trips to the vessel’s rolling. A
child with a,tack hammer can shake
down a forty-story skyscraper if he can
discover the natural period of the build¬
ing’s vibration and then tap persistently
upon the steel framework at the correct
intervals.

“Even the earth itself has its natural

“If you exploded a ton of dynamite on
top of the ground it would blow quite
a hole and jar the earth for several miles
around it; and that would be all. But
if you set off another ton of dynamite,
and then another and another, and kept
it up continuously—always timing the
explosions to the period of the earth’s
vibration—eventually the jar would be
felt clear through the globe. And if you
still persisted, in time you would wreck
the world.

“Such is the accumulative power of
many little blows correctly timed. The
principle of timing small impulses to
produce large effects is the principle of

“But there are other forces in nature
which can produce vibration— electric¬
ity, for instance, Nikola Tesla demon¬
strated a number of years agq that the
globe is resonant to electric waves.*

“Now, suppose some person con¬
structed an apparatus that could sud¬
denly turn a tremendous flood of eleetrie
waves into the earth. That energy would
go clear through the globe, imparting a
tiny impulse to every atom of matter
of which the sphere is composed—like a
push upon the ponduluin of a clock.

“Aud suppose that person know the
exact period of the earth’s vibration, and
sent another bolt, aqd another and
another, into the globe—all exactly

correct moment—to give the pendulum
another push, so to speak. Then let him
pile eleetrie impulse upon electric im¬
pulse, each at just the right second, until
the accumulation of them all represented
millions of horsepower in eleetrie oseilln-

WEIRD TALES

tions. In time, the vmtld would he
shaken to pieces!

“And—impossible as it sounds—that
ia the very principle the Seuen-H’sin is
using there beneath your eyes I The
dynamos furnish the power, and that
great battery of induction coils magni¬
fies it to an almost inconceivable voltage.
By those cables attached to copper plugs,
the impulses are conveyed to the earth.

“Every blow of that tremendous elec¬
tric hammer is heavier than the preced¬
ing one because it baa the accumulated
power of all the others behind it. With
every blow the earth grows weaker—less
able to stand the shock. Continued, the
planet’s doom would be inevitable—if it

I bad been listening to this recital
with amazement too profound to admit
of interruption. When Dr. Gresham
finished I sat silent, turning it all over
in my mind, and reflecting how simple
the explanation seemed. Finally—

“Was it those eleetrie waves being
discharged into the ground,” I asked,
“that Professor Howard Whiteman in
Washington mistook for wireless signals
from Mars?”

“Precisely!” was the answer.

“And how,” I inquired, “was it pos¬
sible for the sorcerers to discover the
exact period of the earth’s vibration!
That seems little short of superhuman.”

“Doubtless you remember the news¬
paper accounts published that night
when we returned from Labrador,” re¬
plied the doctor. “They told how the
elootric whispers, when first noticed, oc¬
curred exactly two minutes apart; then
the interval increased one minute each
night until the signals were separated
by more than thirty minutes; afterward
the lulls altered erratically for some
time, until they became fixed at eleven
minutes and six seconds.”

"Yes,” I assented.

“ Well, ’’continued the sciential, “ those

meat of the Seuen-H’sin to ascertain the
period of the globe’s vibration. If, after
continuing their discharges all one night,
their seismographs showed no response
from the earth, they know their bolts
wore wrongly timed, and they experi¬
mented with another period.

“Event.uully they found that their im¬
pulses penetrated the earth with a speed
of approximately 709 miles a minute—in
other words, in precisely cloven minutes
and six seconds the waves passed clear
through tho plant. This, thep, was
demonstrated to be tho length of'time
that must elapse before tho pendulum—
figuratively speaking—could 'be given
another electrical push. You saw just
now, on the switchboard down there, the

olockwork apparatus which times those
bolts.”

“Your own electrical equipment on
board the Albatross —those big induction
coils and the rest of it—what did you
plan to do with that!”

“I had meant to fight the Seuen-H’sin
with its own methods,” the doctor re¬
plied. “I was going to throw a high-
power eleetrie current into the earth at
intervals between those of the sorcerers’
—say five minutes apart. That would
have interfered with the acceleration of
the vibrations—like setting a second
group of men to run across the ship’s
deck between the trips of the first group.
One set of vibrations would have
neutralized the other.

“But,” Dr. Gresham added, “the
time for such methods is past. We must
end the whole thing immediately—at one

Receiving a signal from Ensign Hal-
lock that he was ready, we started to
rejoin the ship’s party. But before we
had gone a dozen steps we were rooted
to the spot by a new terror!

Off in the east, where the snow-covered
peaks lifted into the sky, suddenly burst
forth an awful crashing Bound, as of a

broken thunder-roll, terrible as the en¬
ormous tumult of the day of doom. As
onr gaze followed the nightmare sounds
to the edge of the world we heheld the
lofty mountains oscillate, crack, disjoint,
and crumble into seething ruin.

The noise that accompanied this de¬
struction came roaring and booming
across the intervening miles—a stupen¬
dous and unearthly commotion, shutter¬
ing the very atmosphere to fragments.

For u minute Dr. Gresham stood
petrified. But as the enormity of tho

seious cry, almost a gruaii, escaped him:

“Too late! Too late! The beginning

Suddenly he wheeled—almost livid
with excitement—to tho naval officer and
screamed at the top of his voice:

“Fire! For God’s sake destroy that
power plant! Fire! FIRE!”

CHAPTER Xlll
PLAYING. OCR FINAL CARD
IN THEIR ASTONISHMENT at the
terrible upheaval. Ensign Hallock
and his men had left their posts and
crowded toward the end of the promon¬
tory, a few feet away from the mortars.
At Dr. Gresham’s command to fire, most,
of them leaped to obey the order.

Instantly the woods behind us sprang

THE MOON TERROR

into life as a horde of Chinamen dashed
from cover, charging straight at us I

Prom the size of the attacking force,
it was evident our presence had heen
kno^v for some time and our capture
delayed until a sufficient number of the
sorcerers could be assembled to insure
our defeat: there seemed ; to be scores of
the blue-clad figures. Most of them were
armed with rifles, although some had
only knives and a few iron bars which
they wielded as dubs.

The distance across the clearing was
not much more than 200 feet, and the
Chinamen advanced at a run—without
any outcry.

But before they had traversed a
quarter of the space Ensign Hallock re¬
covered' from his surprise and, with a
few terse commands, led his crew into
action. Dashing to the machine guns,
the seamen threw themsdves flat on the
ground; and while some manned these
weapons, the rest resorted to thdr revol¬
vers. In two or three seconds the boom¬
ing of the distant catadysm was aug¬
mented by a steady volley of firing.

With deadly effeet the machine guns
raked the advancing semi-cirde of Mon¬
golians. As the foremost line began sud¬
denly to melt away, the rest of the sor¬
cerers wavered and presently came to a
halt They now were not more than a
hundred feet from us. At a command,
they all dropped down upon the ground,
the ones with rifles in front, and began
to return our fire.

I bad drawn my revolver and joined
in the fight-—and so had Dr. Gresham
beside me. But in our excitement we
had remained on Our feet and I now
heard the astronomer shouting at me:

“Lie down! Lie down!”

Even as I dropped, my hat was
knocked off by a bullet; but unharmed,
I stretched out and continued shooting.

Pausing to slip a fresh magazine of
cartridges into my automatic, I suddenly
became aware that a vast wind was
starting to blow out of the east; the very
air seemed alive and quivering.

The Chinamen still outnumbered us
heavily, and all at once I realized—
chiefly from the lessening of our fire—
that their rifle attack was beginning to
take effect. Glancing about, I saw five or
six of the seamen lying motionless.

At this juncture one of the machine
guns jammed, and while its crew was
trying to fix it the yellow devils took
toll of several mord of our mou. I now
saw that only six of us were left to
fight

Simultaneously I became half con¬
scious of a strange, mysterious something
going on about us—u subtle, ghostly
change, not on the earth itself, but in the

air above—some throbbing, indefinable
suggestion of impending doom—of the
end of things.

Snatching a glance over my shoulder,
I saw arising upon the eastern horizon
a black, monstrous cloud of appalling
aspect—a spuming billow of sable mist-
twisting, flying, lifting into the heavens
with tremendous speed. And each mo¬
ment the wind was growing more

Was this, after all, to be the finish t
Was the world—the white man’s world,
which we had fought so hard to save—
to go to smash through these yellow
devils ’ fiendishness 1 Having come with-,
in actual sight of the machinery that was
the cause of it all, was our task to remain

With a terrible cold fury clutching
at my heart, I crawled quickly forward,
discharging my revolver steadily, as I
went, to lend a hand with the disabled
machine gun.

But as I reached it Ensign Hallock
dropped the weapon, with a gesture of
uselessness, and moved quickly back to
the mortars. Out of the corner of my
eye I saw him trying to fire the things,
and a. wave of fierce joy seized me.

_ But the task caused the naval officer
to half raise himself from the ground,
and as he did so I saw him clutch at a
bleeding gash on his head and fall for¬
ward, where he lay still.

An instant later the Chinamen leaped
to their feet with a loud cry and charged
upon US. They, too, were greatly seduced
in numbers, but there were only four of
us now, so nothing remained but an

began hurling our hand grenades, all
the while moving slowly in the only
direction we could go—toward the brink
of the precipice.

Suddenly, above the crack of the rifles
and the exploding of the grenades, an
enormous roaring burst forth in the east
—a sinister screaming of immeasurable
forces, moaning, hooting, shrieking
across the world—the weird, awful voice
of the wounded planet’s stupendous
agony.

This new terror attracted so much at¬
tention that there was a momentary
pause in the sorcerers’ onslaught, and
in that brief lull I noted that our gre¬
nades had wrought terrible havoc among
the Chinamen, reducing their number to
a mere handful. Dr. Gresham saw this
at the some time, and shouted to us to
let them have it again with the missiles.

Apparently sensing the purport of
this command, the Chinamen sprang
forward, seeking to engage us at too
close range for the grenades to be used.
But several of the missiles met them

almost at their first leap, and when the
hurricane of shrapnel abated, there re-
mained only three of the yellow fiends to
continue the attack.

But at the same time I made the grim
discovery that on our ride Dr. Gresham
and myself alone survived!

With the realization that it had now
come to a hand-to-hand encounter, I
braced myself to meet the shock as the
trio darted forward. I somehow felt
that nothing mattered any longer, any¬
way, for so tremendous had become the
earth-tumult that it seemed impossible
the planet could resist disruption many
minutes more.

Nevertheless, the passions of a wild
animal surged within me; a sort of mad¬
ness steeled my muscles.

One powerful, thick-set Chinaman
leaped upon Dr. Gresham and the two
went down in a striking, clawing test of
strength. A second later the remaining
pair hurled themselves upon me.

I whipped out my revolver just as one
fellow seized me from the front, and,
pressing the weapon against his body, I
fired. In a moment he relaxed his hold
and crumpled down at my feet The
other chap now had me around the neck
from the rear and was shutting off my
wind. Round and round we staggered, as
I vainly sought to loosen his hold. Be¬
fore long everything went black in front
of me and I thought I was done for—
when I heard faintly, in a daze, the
crack of a revolver. Quickly the grip
about my neck fell away.

When I began to come to myself again
I saw Ensign Hallock sitting up on the
ground, his face covered with blood, but
wielding the revolver that had ended the
career of my last adversary.

At the same time I saw that the of¬
ficer was trying desperately to train his
weapon upon something behind me.
Looking about, I saw Dr. Gresham and
his opponent rolling over and over on
the ground, almost at the edge of the
precipice, struggling frantically for pos¬
session of a knife. Because of their ra¬
pid changes of position, Hallock dared
not shoot, for fear of hitting the
scientist.

Just then the Chinaman came on top
for an instant, and I leaped forward,
aiming my revolver at.him. The trigger
snapped, but there was no report. The
weapon was empty.

Less than a dozen feet now separated
me from the wrestlers, when the Celestial
suddenly jerked the knife fine and
raised it for a swift stroke.

With all my strength I hurled the
empty revolver at the yellow devil. It
struck him squarely between the eyes.
The knife dropped and he clutched at

In All the World There Was No
Man Quite Like This One

The Man the Law Forgot

By WALTER NOBLE BURNS

T HE J Alb was silent. Boisterous
incoherencics that iu the day
made tlic vast gloomy pile of
stone and iron a bedlam—talk, curses,
laughter—were stilled.

The prisoners were asleep in their
cells. Dusty electric bulbs at sparse in¬
tervals made a dusky twilight iu the
long, hushed corridors. Moonlight,
shimmering through the tall, narrow
windows, laid barred, luminous lozenges
on the stone floors.

From the death cell in “Murderers’
Bow,*’ the voice of Guisseppi rose in
the still-night watches in th e Miserere.
Its first mellow notes broke the slumber¬
ous silence with dulcet crashes like the
breaking of ice crystals beneath a silver
hammer. Vibrating through the cavern¬
ous spaces of the sleeping prison, the
clear boyish voice lifting the burden of
the solemn hymn was by turns a tender
caress, a flight of white wings up into
sunny skies, a silver whisper stealing
through the glimmering aisles, a swift
stream of plashing melody, a flaming
rush of music. .

“A l roken and a contrite heart, O
God, thou, wiU not despise:” The prayer
in, its draperies of melody filled the
cells like a shining presence and laid
its blessing of hope upon hopeless hearts.
From the shadow of the gallows,
Guisseppi poured forth his soul in music
that was benediction and farewell.

Bitter memories, like sneering ghosts
that elbow one another, crowd the road
to Gallows Hill. In swift retrospect,
Guisseppi reviewed his life’s last tragic
phase. Young, with healthy blood danc¬
ing gay dances through his veins, sunny-
spirited, spilling over with the happiness
and hopefulness of irresponsibility, he
had not despaired when the death sent¬
ence was pronounced.

The court’s denial of his lawyer’s mo¬
tion for a new trial left him with un¬
diminished optimism. Yet a While longer
hope sustained him when his old father
and mother kissed him good-by through
the bars and set off for the state capital
to intercede with the governor.

Bowed with years and broken with
sorrow, they had pleaded in tears and

on their knees. The venerable father,
lost for words, helplessly inarticulate,
the mother with her black shawl over her
head, white-faced, hysterical, both pray¬
ing for the life of their only son, were
a picture to melt a heart of-stone.

The pathos of it stirred.the governor
to the depths, but could not inako him
forget that for the momeut he stood as
the incarnation of the law and the in¬
exorable justice that is the theory of
the law. With heavy heart and misty
eyes, he turned away.

So jiope at last had died. And be¬
tween the death of hope and the death
that awaited him, Guisseppi brooded in
the death-cell, bitterly counting his
numbered days as they slipped one by
one into the past, each day bringing him
that much nearer to certain annihilation.
Round and round the dial, the hands of
the clock on the prison wall went in a
never-ending funeral march; the tiek-
tock, Hck-tock of the pendulum, measur¬
ing off the fateful seconds, echoed in his
heart like a death knell.

Times without number he repeated to
himself that he was not afraid to die.
Nevertheless the inevitability of death
tortured him. At times, in sheer terror,
he seized the rigid bars of his cell,
pounded his fists against the iron walls,
till the blood spurted from his knuckles.
He was like a sparrow charmed by a
serpent, fluttering vainly to escape, but
drawing ever nearer to certain death.
Black walls of death kept closing in upon
him inexorably, like a mediaeval torture
chamber.

Some men, the experts say, are bow

some fortuity or crisis of circumstances.
Guisseppi had been a happy, healthy,
careless boy. His father was a small
shopkeeper of the Italian quarter who
had achieved a certain prosperity. His
mother was a typical Italian mother,
meek, long-suffering, tender, her whole
life wrapped up in her boy, Her husband
and her home.

Guisseppi had received a good common
school education. He had been a choir
boy in Santa Michaels Church, and the
range and beauty of his voice had won

him fame even beyond the borders of the
colony; musicians for whom he had sung
had grown enthusiastic over his promise
and had encouraged him to study for
the operatic stage.

The exuberance of youth, and love of
gayety and adventure, had been respons¬
ible for his first misstep. His companions
of the streets had enticed him into
Cardello’s pool room. Cardello, known
to the police as ‘ ‘ The Devil,” had noted
with a crafty eye the lively youth’s pos¬
sibilities as a useful member of his gang.
His approaches were subtle—genial
patronage, the pretense of goodfellow-
ship, an intimate glass across a table.
The descent to Avewus was facile.

Almost before he knew it, Guisseppi
was a sworn member of Cardello’s gang
of reckless young daredevils and a
participant in their thrilling nightly
adventures. Home lessons were for¬
gotten. His mother lost her influence
over the boy. Even Rosina Stefano, the
little beauty of the quarter, who had
claimed all his boyish devotion since
school days, had no power to turn him
from his downward course.

He had been taken by the police after
a robbery in which a citizen had been
killed. He was condemned to death.

“I forgive everybody,” Guisseppi
told his death-watch. “Everybody but
‘Devil’ Cardello. If it had not been
for him, I would be free and happy
today. He made me a thief. That is his
business—teaching young fools to rob
for him. He did the planning; we did
the jobs. We took the chances, he took
the money. I was in the hold-up when
the gang committed murder, but I my¬
self killed no man.

“And now the gallows is waiting for
me, while Cardello sits in his pool room,
immune, prosperous, still planning
crimes for other young fools. If I could
sink my fingers in his throat and choke
his fife out, I could die happy. One
thing I promise him—if my ghost can
come back, I will haunt him to his dying
day.”

Morning dawned. Father and mother
arrived for a final embrace. Rosina gave
him a last kiss. A priest administered

A Gripping, Powerful Story by a Man Who
Always Tells a Good Tale

THE BLADE OP VENGEANCE

87

gers, and went sadly back to his bachelor As the wretched venture had turned sapphire. Here, indeed, was

haunts in the hope of forgetting. But he out, however, she was still under.thirty different.

was appalled to find that he no longer and was, to employ the homely simile of she was wild with delight

The friends of the free and easy days
of his celibacy were sincere enough in
their pity'for him, though in no way dis¬
posed to put themselves out seeking
reclamation. In short, they might as
well hat

her dainty feet touched the shell-paved
pretty as a peacn." beach. Keally, this wonderland was too

splendidly perfect to share with her un-

A T THE Pacific entrance of the poetic company of paid buffoons! She
Grand Canal, where the town of sent the whole lot of them bagging back
Bandora drowses like a sprawling lizard to Bandora, decided to employ a guide,
on the sun-baked clay, word went round a boatman, or a native maid, contingent
“You couldn’t have expected ub to that the millionaire adventuress was upon her special needs, right on the
forewarn you; you’d have quit us cold, yachting down the west coast, homeward ground.

You had to discover it for yourself, and bound. It was due to this whim of Leanor’s

the operation of finding out has simply Everybody who read the public prints that I myself wandered into the cast,
rendered you impossible as one of the knew about Leaner, so at least one ele- came to know Leanor and likewise the
old crowd. Sorry, old man, but, after men t at Bandora awaited her arrival story I am telling you here. I had just
with curious interest. And the curious come through a notably obstinate case of
were to be gratified, for since pretty dengue in the sanitarium. My thin
Leanor habitually did the unexpected, knees, in fact, were still somewhat wob-
appeared. she only proved her consistency when, bly, and I was urging them back to

The old circle knew his set and upon her arrival, she capriciously decid- normal by means of a leisurely stroll
cynical face no more. There were e d to tarry a fortnight, with the two- nomas the rnllincr nasture-land. On a
rumors of mental breakdown and fold object of having a look at the great
suicide, and them was one report (little waterway and exploring historic Ba-
credited, however) that the unfortunate toga Island, only a couple of hours dis-
fellow had drifted down into the wilds of tant.

Should the mighty monument

grassy, wind-swept hillside I came all
unexpectedly upon Leanor.

Evidently she had thought to refresh
her jaded wits by a revel in wild flowers.
“ was seated on a shelf of rock that

South America and become an eccentric
and a recluse. gineering skill prove uninteresting, rimmed the hill-crown, culling unworthy

Leanor tired, in time, of the murder- there ^mained the secret caves of Bato- floral specimens. A single upward
ous velocity of her social chariot, ^ among them La Guaca de San Pedro, glance, and then her eyes dropped back
dumped the winged vehicle on the trash- ^y auction the identical haunted, bat- to her flowers in a world-bored manner
heap and went abroad, accompanied by habited cavern in which buccaneering which I somehow felt a quick impulse to
a less rich and more ambitious retinue ol d Henry Morgan had once stored all resent. At least I could annoy her. That
of high livers. ^ „ of his ill-gotten gains and maybe im- was any fool’s privilege.

prisoned the unfortunate nuns captured “Gathering flowers?” I interrogated,

a ... T .a._ at Porto BeUo! And then - t00 ' there just as though that fact were not as ob-

Ld variety for Leanor. was tie celebrated Devil’s Channel, vious as the blue sky itself,
her tastes, she could wtich; according to widely circulated p mv f - ont ., ine fort i«ca-

--- chaugeful, ®nd much-believed stories, sucked small tions were in dautty 6wept by an ocular
■aft down into its omnivorous maw like onsla ht weU calculated to obliterate. I
,me insatiable demon lying in wait. 8miled back engagingly at the source of
Leanor devoted but little time to the fbe tempest

a engineering feat. After all “Some hill, this,” I suggested, emit-
man-made, and what was man if tin a;wi ndy sigh after the exertion of
purveyor to feminine caprices? ascent

mono . men were-cheap. The adventurers And then I saw that my second drive
ie had kuew ’ had broken through her first-line trench

t . „„ many of them. She had bartered the on a fr01lt of abonTa quarter of an inch.

Disdain died slowly out of her face—a
face still unaccountably fresh and girl-
ish—and something tike pity at my ap-

Like vari-colored butterflies, five ye
winged overhead, years by no me
lacking in color and variety for Leanor.

Exacting as were her t '
scarcely have desired a
a more exquisitely exhilarating life.

Only once in a blue moon did she !
think of Henry. Thoughts of him, like

inrush of the more Ultimate and actuaL ’

Heury had been very good to her,
she had to admit, but lie had been
the less impossible. The
been inevitable from the lx _
was fifteen veal's her senior. She knew
that she could
tile self down

irery souls of so

have held her vola- t , She “ bon 8 ht aU ™ „
life of self-sacrifice » elieve affection and disposed of them at

“You really think it a high hill?” s
asked, faintly smilin g and gazing at i
s though she doubted r

st cloyed, I noted that her hazel eyes se

suffering with Henry. The idea was a hundred per cent discount She treat- parent lack of sophistication took its
no less absurd than the mating of an e<J them much “ one treats cast-off gar- pIaoe .
esthetic humming-bird with some sedate ments ’ experiencing only minor difficul- .

old ow ,_ 6 ties in disengaging *-*

When she consented to many Henry the more persisten
she had entertained no such preposterous A genuine Sybarite, Leanor’s appetite ;
thought as exacting of him a compti- for entities masculine had at last cli

ance with the ridiculously restricted end she now turned impatiently to vn- swim in seas 01 a wonaenuuy spanning

code of ethics he subsequently set for scrutable old- Nature to make up the de- liquid.

her. Indeed, she would have grown old ficiency. “Well,” I qualified, affecting funereal

and ugly with nothing accomplished. She went to Batoga, a verdant, mighty gravity, “it’s higher than some hills.”
unseeking and unsought. Too, (here mountain, greenly shaggy, as yet an- Her amused smile expanded pereep-
would have been lamentably fewer shorn by advancing civilization. It tibly.

notches on her ivory fan than the half- might have been a tittle separate world, ‘‘Beall}', now, have you ever seen

decade last past had yielded. set down by nature in a deeping sea of very many hills 1”

WEIRD TALES

“N-no,” I reluctantly confessed,
not so very many.”

“What induced you to measure this

Vs if to take strength from them, she

I said quietly. At last she had given mo
an opening.

“Whom, pray?” she demanded, her
smile brightening expectantly.

“Ton—if you don’t mind,” I an¬
nounced.

“Me!” She laughed deliriously for a

is still. “I’ve b<

The craze for the blinding white
lights, and the delusion of equally white
wines, were surfeited. The gilt and tin¬
sel of the truly tawdry had palled. The
mask of allurement had fallen from the
forbidding face of the artificial and
empty. Life itself had become for Lo¬

rn much of it in too brief

case for years.”

She sobered with a suddenness that
suggested ugly thoughts, perchance re¬
membering something of her kaleido¬
scopic past. The hazel eyes saddened a
little. It was evident that She was rum¬
maging among happenings which it gave
her small pleasure to review. I waited.
Maybe I was not quite the yokel she had
thought me.

“Do you mean you’re a detective!”
she presently asked.

“I mean just that, madam,” I said

“By whom are you employed?” she
questioned tentatively.

“By Henry Fayne,” I casually re-

“That is the lie of an impostor,”
quickly asserted the woman; “Henry
Fayne is dead.”

She rose from the stone shelf and pre¬
pared to desert me. Anyhow, I had won
my point. I had succeeded in annoy-

But I concluded I could hardly let
the matter so end, even as affecting a
woman like Leanor. Nobody can afford
to be openly rude.

“Wait,” I said; “let’s be good
sportsmen. Ton tilted at me and I re¬
taliated. Honors are even. Why not
forget it!”

She was greatly relieved; and besides,
forgetfulness, of all things, was what
she sought. After a moment, deep wells
of langhter again glistened in her splen¬
did eyes. These and the smiling young
mouth somehow seemed to give the lie to
the fiasco she had made of life. What
a pity, I thought, that she had chosen
to fritter away her life in this fatuous,
futile fashion.

I had thought that I should feel only

tradiction, a veiled regret that her fren¬
zied explorations had exhausted all too
soon the world’s meager store of things
worth while, and there was a bitter¬
ness in her voice which contrasted un¬
pleasantly with her youth and beauty as
she said plainly, though with little vis¬
ible emotion, that she had reached a
point where life itself often repelled and
nauseated her.

We had reached the sanitarium by
this time, an interruption not unwelcome
in the circumstances, and I left the
strange woman alone with her tardy re¬
grets and sought my own quarters, sym¬
pathetic and depressed, yet thanking my
lucky stars for the happy dispensation
that had made me an adventurer instead

That evening, Leanor and I planned
a trip to Devil’s Channel, and I strolled
down to the beach in search of such a
shallow-draught cayuco as could ma¬
neuver its way over the reefs that barred
larger.craft. Boteros of divers nationali¬
ties abounded, and among the many my
questioning gaze finally met that of a
vagabondish-looking fellow countryman
in a frayed sailor garb. In odd contrast
to his raiment, and swinging from his
belt in a sheath which his short coat for
an instant did not quite conceal, I
caught a single glimpse of a heavy hunt¬
ing knife with an ornamented stag-horn
handle.

His name was Sisson, he told me, but
he spoke Spanish like a native. His
uncarded beard was a thing long for¬
gotten of razors. He was unmistakably
another of those easily identified tramps
of the tropics who, in an unguarded mo¬
ment, unaccountably lose their grip on
themselves and thenceforward go sliding
unresistingly down to a not unwelcome

Sisson did not importune me, as die
all the other boatmen; he did not ever
offer me his sendees; and it was be
cause of this evidence of some lingeries,
vestige of pride, coupled with the fact drop’—’

AT THE narrow gateway of Devil’s
“ Channel the water is so shallow,
and there so frequently occur tiny sub¬
merged sand-bars, that only the minut¬
est of sea craft can skim over the gleam¬
ing rifts and gain entrance. This was
confirmed for the nth time when I felt
the specially made keel of our tiny
cayuco scrape the shiny sand in warning
that we were at last entering the can-
jspn-like waterway.

Leanor- and I were both plying our
splendid oarsman with well-nigh every
imaginable question about the gloomy,
spooky-looking channel before us.

“Aren’t we nearing (he place yet?”
Leanor presently asked.

“Farther in,” drawled Sisson, the
bearded giant of a boatman, glancing
carelessly at the ascending cliffs on either
side.

Twisting my body round in the wee
native cayuco, I noted that the perpen¬
dicular walls of the shadowy strait that
lay before us seemed drawing together
with every pull of Sisson’s great arms.
Leanor’s pretty face was radiant with
expectation. Though bored of the world,
there was at least one more thrill for her

Five minutes slipped by. Sisson
rowed on steadily.

“There she is!” the boatman said
suddenly, for the first time evincing
something like a normal human interest
in life. .One of his huge, hairy hands was
indicating an alkali spot on the face of
the right-hand wall a stone’s throw
ahead. “Just opposite that white spot
is where it always happens.”

He released his oars and let them trail
in the still water. It looked peculiarly
lifeless. Our small shell gradually

“Seems to be all smooth sailing here
today, though,” I ventured.

“Overrated, for the benefit of tour¬
ists,” opined Sisson. “The water’s
eaten out a little tunnel under the west
wall, but there’s no real danger if you
know the chart.”

“How many did you say were
drowned when that launch went down! ”
again asked Leanor. Her great dark
eyes were sparkling again now with a
keen new interest in life—or was it the
nearness to potential death?

“Eleven,” drawled Sisson. “The en¬
gineer jumped for it and made a land¬
ing on that bench of slate over there,
and right there”—he smiled reminis¬
cently—“he sat for seventy-two hours.

“And is it true that hone of the life-
preservers they were putting on when
the launch sank was ever found?” Le-
anor also wanted to know.

“True enough,” said Sisson, “but
that’s not unnatural. Drowning men
lay hold of whatever they can and never,
never turn loose, my. I've seen the
clawlike fingers of skeletons locked
around sticks that wouldn’t bear n P a
cockroach!”

“Did you say it was a relatively-calm
day?’.’ I questioned the boatman idly.

“Sure. Calm as it is right now,”
he answered.

I observed casually that the oarsman
was gazing fixedly at Leaner. Even on
him, perhaps, beauty was not entirely
lost. Doubtless, too, he had heard the
gossip her arrival had set going along
the wharves at Batoga. Meanwhile Le-
anor had made a discovery.

“Why, we’re still making headway!”
she broke out suddenly. “I—I thought
we had stopped.”

Sisson glanced down at the water, and
his tanned brow broke up in vertical
wrinkles of consternation. The look in
his deepset eyes, though, did not, oddly
enough, seem to match the perplexity
written on his corrugated brow.

Our craft was sliding rapidly for¬
ward as though propelled by the oars.
The phenomenon was due to a current;
that much was certain, for we were
moving with a flotsam of dead leaves

Again I screwed my body half round
in the cramped bow and shot a glance
ahead. God! we were shooting toward
the dread spot on the alkali Cliff as
though drawn to it by an unseen mag¬
net 1 could see, too, that our speed was
rapidly increasing.

Sisson snatched up the trailing/oars
and put his giant’s strength against the
invisible something that seemed drag¬
ging us by the keel, but all he did was
to plough two futile furrows in the
strange whirlpool. Our capuco glided

The blase adventuress was never more
beautiful. For the time, at least, life,
warm and pulsating, had come back and
clasped her in a joyous embrace. Her
lips were parted in a smile of seemingly
inexpressible delight. There was not the
remotest suggestion of surprise or fear
in her girlish face.

She put her helm over only when I
shouted to her in wide-eyed alarm, but
the keen, finlike keel of our specially
built cayvco obviously did not respond.
Oblique in the channel, we slithered
over, ever nearer to the west wall, the
unseen agent of destruction towing us
with awful certainty toward the vortex.

THE BLADE OF VENGEANCE

Still the surface of the water, moving
with us, looked as motionless as a mill¬
pond! It was uncanny, nothing less.

I peered into the bluishly transparent
depths, fascinated with wonder, and
then, of a sudden, I saw that which
alone might prove our salvation. Ap¬
parently we were in a writhing, power¬
ful current, racing atop the seemingly
placid undersea or sub-surface waters
of the channel. I could make out many
small objects spinning merrily about as
they flew, submerging, toward the whirl-

We carried six life-belts. Two of
these I snatched from their fasteningB,
slipped one about Leanor, and with the
other but partly adjusted—for there re¬
mained no time—myself plunged out of
our—as it were—bewitched craft in the
direction of the west walL

To my surprise I swam easily. When
I made a deep stroke, however, I could
feel strange suctorial forces tugging at
my finger-tips. But for the moment I

I glanced about to see if Leanor had
followed my lead. She was not in the
water. I turned on my back and saw, to
my utter amazement, that neither she
nor Sisson had left the cayuco.

This was unaccountable indeed. And
it was now clear that it was too late for
them to jump, for the light boat had al¬
ready begun to spin round in a circle at
a point exactly opposite the alkali spot!
Faster and faster it flew, the diameter
of the ring in which it raced swiftly
narrowing.

As I swam, my shoulder collided with
some obstruction. It was the west wall.
I clambered up a couple of feet and sat
dripping on a slime-covered shelf of
slate, the identical slab on which the en¬
gineer of the sunken launch had
thirsted.

I was powerless to help mjr com¬
panions. I could only sit and stare in
near unbelief. Why —Why had they
not abandoned the tiny craft with me?
I saw now that neither had even so much
as got hold of a life-belt. Why—?

My God! What was this I beheld?
Sisson had advanced to the stem of the
flying cockleshell where Leanor still sat
motionless, unexcited, smiling. The
charmed look of expectancy was still in
her perfect face.

Sisson’s voice, suddenly risen high,
chilled me to the marrow. It might have
been the voice of some martyr on the
scaffold. He did not reveal his identity
to Leanor. It was not necessary. Some¬
thing—I dare not say what—enabled
her in that awful moment of tragedy to
know her divorced husbuand.

89

npHE EXQUISITE torture of recol-
lection had shriveled Henry
Fayne’s mentality and left him a semi¬
maniac, yet here, after all the cynical,
embittering years was the physical, the
camate Henry Fayne, the long-discard¬
ed plaything of feminine caprice. His
suffering was fearfully recorded in the
seamed and bearded mask of his altered

The smile did not leave Leanor’s face.
The madman’s voice rose in a shrill,
terrible cry. He babbled and sputtered
in consuming rage, but I caught the
current of his wild harangue. He had
waited all the years for this opportuni¬
ty; he had followed her from Bandora,
had laid all his plans with infinite nicety
to avenge the wreck which Leanor had
made of his life.

But the woman laughed defiantly,
tensely; laughed derisively, full in the
bearded face.

“You have waited too long, Henry,”
she said, evenly yet with a note of tri¬
umph in her tone; “I’ve worn thread¬
bare every allurement of life. Today I
came here seeking my last adventure—
a sensation at once new and ultimate—
death!”

It was here that the miracle super-

Chagrin, fierce and awful, distorted
the hairy vagabond’s face, and, balanc¬
ing himself precariously in the crazily
whirling dugout, he raised a great
clenched fist. I once had seen a laugh¬
ing man struck by lightning. As the
rending voltage shot through him the
muscles of his face had relaxed slowly,
queerly, as if from incredulity, just as
the furious, drawn face of Henry Fayne
relaxed now. The menacing fist un¬
clinched and fell limply at his side.

Of all the examples of thwarted ven¬
geance I had ever seen on the stage, or
off, this episode from real life was the
most dramatic.

The boat had circled swiftly in to the
center of the vortex and now spun crazi¬
ly for a moment as though on a fixed pi¬
vot, Eke a weather-vane. Then it capri¬
ciously resumed its first tactics, only it
now raced inversely in a rapidly widen¬
ing circle, running well down in the wa¬
ter, as though from some powerful sub¬
marine attraction.

That the spurious boatman was a vic¬
tim of some hopeless form of insanity I
was certain when I saw him drop to his
knees and extend both his great hands
in evident entreaty to the woman who
had stripped him of his honor and.
driven him, a driveling idio-maniac, into
exile. Leanor sat impassive, but the
madman continued to suppEcate.

WEIRD TALES

Never did my credulity undergo so
mighty a strain as when, after a moment,
the woman reached out and locked her
slim hands in his. It was a strange
picture, believe me! Prom my uncer¬
tain perch on the slimy ledge of slate, I
stared, thrilling deep in my being at
this futile truce on the brink of eternity.

Its revolutions greatly widened and
its spcod diminished, the tiny boat sud¬
denly sweryed from its circular course,
bobbed upward as though a great weight
had been detached from its keel and then
drifted like some spout thing of life to¬
ward the west wall, where I crouched
dumbfounded, my breath hissing in my
nostrils, my lungs heaving.

Only now am I coming to the crux
of this story of which the foregoing
forms a necessary prelude.

Back at Batoga that same night, in an
obscure comer of the wide cool porch of
the palm-environed sanitarium, Henry
Payne and Leanor, after a long heart-to-
heart talk alone, agreed to forgive and.
forget Liter in the evening Payne
went down to the contiguous village to
assemble his meager belongings. They
would be interesting souvenirs with
which to decorate the walls of the re¬
habilitated home. I found Leanor sitting
where he Imd left her on the porch,
smiling enigmatically.

“Can I act, or not?” she asked me
rather abruptly as I came up.

“Act?” I groped; “what do you

She sat there, smiling mysteriously in
the white moonlight, until I at length
prevailed upon her to pour into my in¬
credulous ears how it had flashed upon
her, in the crucial moment at the whirl¬
pool, that she must convince Fayne that
to destroy, one who seeks death would
give no satisfaction to a seeker after
vengeance. She had made him eee that
the most effective way of wreaking his
revenge would be to prevent her taking
her own life and force her to live with
him again as in the qld days. What, in¬
deed, could be greater punishment than
that?

So onefe again the wily adventuress
had tricked poor Henry Payne. It had

been a close thing, but her lightning
wits had saved her to look forward en-
chantedly to the prospect of other ad¬
ventures. Though she had, in fact, tired
of life, she had weakened before death;
yet the fortitude of ekillful artifice
underlying that physical fear bespoke
such a resourcefulness as I had never be¬
fore seen in any woman.

She had spoken more truth thau she
know when she said that Henry Fayne
was dead, for, mentally, he no longer

But Leanor had one more card to
play. When she had outlined her cam¬
paign, I sat aghast at the frank inhu¬
manity of her plans for the morrow. Sho
had already made arrangements with
the native officials of the nearby village.
She was to appear in court and testify,
and I was to be summoned to give evi¬
dence before the committing judge.
Henry Payne was to be ruthlessly
chucked ihto the Acorn Insane Asylum!

After Leanor had retired to her apart¬
ment I lingered a while in the fragrant
night to smoke a Cigar and meditate, for
I was badly npset by her pitiless resolve.
As I sat reviewing the strange events of
the day, the dark figure of a man, half,
bent and retreating rapidly among the
dappled shadows of the palms, startled
me unpleasantly.

At my first glimpse of the skulker,
some sixth sense told me that he had
been eavesdropping Leanor and me from
under the elevated porch on which I
sat. As soon as the flitting shadow had
melted into the gloom I slipped off the
porch and investigated.

My half-formed suspicion was con¬
firmed. The eavesdropper’s footprints
were quite distinct. He had crouched di¬
rectly under the chairs which the ad¬
venturess and I had occupied.

I did not retire until an hour later.
An indescribable feeling of dread had,
though for no adequate reason, begun
to weigh upon my spirits and to nag my

The first faint glimmer of dawn was
in the east when something touched me
softly on the shoulder. I remembered
that I had left my porch window open,

and sprang up in a sudden flurry of
alarm, but my nerves slackened quickly
when the intruder, a black Jamaican,
showed me his watchman’s badge.

The old negro was afraid something
had happened. He had heard stealthy
footfalls upstairs, and somebody’s bed¬
room door was wide open. On looking
into the room he had seen—!

But at this point in his story he
choked, overcome. He was an excitable
and superstitious old black at best, but
now he was fairly beside himself with a
terror for which he had no explanation.
The occupant of the room, I surmised,
had gone out on the porch, properly
enough, to smoke an early morning
cigar. But the old watchman would not
be reassured until I consented to ac¬
company him up to the second floor.

I noted, as wc advanced along the
corridor, that a door stood ajar. I tapped
tentatively.- No answer. I repeated the
summons, louder. Still no answer. I
walked in.

The moonlight that flooded the porch
outride filtered in, subdued, through the
lace-curtained windows. It revealed a
bed. In the the center o'f the bed was
the figure of a woman—all in snow white
save a single dark-hued covering of eomc
sort which sprawled across the full

A nameless something ntado me fum¬
ble rather hurriedly for the electric
switch. The bright light showed what
I had dreaded, almoBt expected. The
dark-colored garment was not a garment
at all. It was blood.

It dyed the white bosom repellently
and, still welling from its fountain, was
fast forming a ragged little pool on the
bedcovering. Pair over the victim’s
heart, the ornamented stag-horn handle
of a heavy hunting-knife, none of the
blade visible, stood up like a sinister
monument, somehow increasingly fam¬
iliar to my gaze; and after an instant’s
reflection I could have sworn—so plainly
did my eyes visualize the motive for this
horror—that I beheld a single word
scrawled in crimson along the mottled
staghorn handle:

“VENGEANCE!"

Air Transportation Between Chicago and New York
To Be Established

/CHICAGOANS will soon be able to run down to New York building several huge, helium-filled balloons in the Schutte-
1 on business early one morning and be back home in Lanz Company’s plant in Germany, acoording to Benedict
time for breakfast the next day, if the plans for dirigible Crowell, former secretary of war, who is the president of
service between the two cities carry through. A number of the new corporation. The airships will carry passengers and
prominent Americans are members of a corporation that is freight, it was announced.

It Was a Frightful, Incredible Thing,
Found in the Amazon Valley

THE GRAY DEATH

By LOUAL B. SUGARMAN

T TNWAVERINGLY, my guest sus-
I J tained my perplexed and angry
stare. Silently, he withstood the
battering words X launched at him.

— e appeared quite unmoved by my

crept up and flooded his face, as now and
then I grew particularly bitter and bit-

At length I ceased. It was like hitting
into a mass of feathers—there was no
resistance to my blows. He had made
no attempt to justify himself. After a
momentous silence, he spoke his first
word since we had entered the room.

“I’m sorry, my friend; more sorry
than you can imagine, but—I couldn’t
help it. I simply could not touch her
hand. The shock—so suddenly to come
upon her—to see her as she was-r-I tell
you, I forgot myself. Please convey to
your wife my most abject apologies, will
you? I am sorry, for I know I should
have liked her very much. But—now I

“You can’t go out in this storm,’’ I
answered. “It’s out of the question.
I’m sorry, too; sorry that you acted as
you did—and more than sorry that I
spoke to you as I did, just now. But I
was angry. Can you blame me? I’d
been waiting for this moment ever since
I heard froih you that you had come
back from the Amazon—the moment

when you, my best frienjd, and my wife
were to meet. And then—why, damn
it, man, I can’t understand it! To pull
back, to shrink hway as you did; even
to refuse to take her hand or acknowl¬
edge the introduction! It was unbe¬
lievably rude. It hurt her, and it hurt

“I know it, and that is why t am so

myself, but I can tell you a story that
-may explain.”

I saw, however, that for some reason

the whole matter, and in the morning
you can make your amends to Laura. ”
Anthony shook his head.

“It’s not pleasant to talk about, but
that was not my reason for hesitating.

I was afraid you Would not believe, me
if I did tell you. Sometimes truth
strains one’s credulity* too much. But
I will tell you. It may do me good to
talk about it, and, anyhow, it will ex¬
plain why I acted as I did.

“Your wife came in just after, we en¬
tered. She had ho yet removed her veil
or gloves. They were gray. So was
her dress. Her shoes—everything was
gray. And she stood there, her hand
outstretched—all in that color—a body
covered with gray. I can’t help shud¬
dering. I can’t stand gray! It’s the
color of death; Can your nerves stand
the dark?”

I rose and switched off the lights. The
room was plunged into darkness, save
for the flicker of the flames in the fire¬
place and the intermittent flashes of
lightning. The rain beat through the
leafless branches outside with a monot¬
onous, slithering swish and rattled like
ghostly fingers against the windows.

“The light makes it hard to talk—
of unbelievable things. One needs the
darkness to hear of hell.”

He paused. The swir-r-r of the rain
crept into the stillness of the room. My
companion sighed. The firelight shone
on his face, which floated in the darkness
—a disembodied face, grown suddenly
haggard.

“A good night for this story, with the
wind crying like a lost soul in the night.
How I hate that aound! Ah, well!”

There was a moment of silence.

“It was not like this, though, that
night when we started up the Amazon.
No. Then it was warm and soft, and
the stars seemed so near. The air was
filled with scent of a thousand tropical
blossoms. They grew rank on the shore.

“There were four of us—two natives,
myself and Yon Housmann. It is of
him I am going to tell you. He was a
German—and a good man. A great
naturalist, and a true friend. He sucked
the poison from my leg once, when a
snake had bitten me. I thanked him
and said I’d repay him some day. I
did—sooner than I had thought— with
a bullet! I could not bear to see him

The man sat there, gazing into the
flames—and I listened to the dripping
rain fingering the bare boughs and iop-
tap-tapping on the roof above.

My friend looked up.

“I was seeing his face in the flames.
God help him! .... We had traveled for
days—weeks—how long does not matter.
We had camped and moved on; we had
stopped to gather specimens—always
deeper into that evil undergrowth. And
as we moved on. Von Housmann and I
grew dose; one either grows to love or
hate in such circumstances, and Sig¬
mund was not the sort of man one would
hate. I tell you, I loved that man!

“One day we struck into a hew place.
Wo had long before left the tracks of
other expeditions. We trekked along,
unmindful of the exotic beauty of our
surroundings, when I saw our native,
who was up ahead, stop short and sniff

“We stopped, too, and then I noticed
what the keener, more primitive sense of
our guide had detected first”

“ TT WAS an odor. A strange odor, in-

A definable and sickening. It was
filled with foreboding—evil. It smelt—
gray! I can not describe it any other
way. It smelt dead. * It made me think
of decay—decay, and mould and—ugly
things. I shuddered. 1 looked at Yon
Housmann, and I saw that he, too, had
noticed it.

“ ‘What is that smell?’ I asked.

“He shook his head.

“ ‘ Ach, dot iss new. I haf not smelled
it before. But—I do not lige it. It iss
not goot. Smells is goot or bat—und
dbt is not goot I say, I do not lige dot

“Neither did I. We went ahead,
cautiously now. A curious sense per¬
vaded the air. It puzzled me. Then it
struck me: silence. Silence, as though
the music of the spheres had suddenly
been snuffed out It was the utter cessa¬
tion of the interminable chirping and
chattering of the birds and monkeys and
other small animals.

“We had become so accustomed to
that multitudinous babel that is absence

WEIRD TALES

"He wag holding out his hands, look¬
ing at them. They were gray. And they
writhed and twisted, but his arms were
still. He was not even trembling. My
tongue clove to the roof of my mouth,
and my throat was dry—but at last I
called to him.

" ‘Sigmund—Sigmund!’ I cried. ‘Pot-
God’s sake—’

“He looked up, and, 1 tell you, 1
never want to see such a face again! I
can never forget it. The face of a soul
itt torture. He looked at me and held
out his arms. His hands were gone—
flaked off in largo, gray, writhing, drops
to'the sand at his feet!

“He tried to smile, but couldn’t.

“Another gray-Thing—dropped off.
I was dizzy with sickness. It was un¬

believable. And then he spoke. His
voice was well-nigh unrecognisable. It
croaked and broke:

“ ‘Done for, my friendt. I feel it
eating to my heart. Be merciful and
help me. Slu/ot —quick, through the
forcheadt!’

"His words beat’through the stupor
clouding my brain, I started toward
him—hands out-stretched. I could not

‘“list (lottos Witten, llcibt da!
Stop! Stop!’

“The words brought me up to a stop.

“‘Sigmund! My friend! What— ?’

“ ‘Do not come near me! Vould you
also be so tormented? Vat dot Gray
touches it consumes. Do not arguo, I

say, but shoot! Heilige Mutter! Vy do
you not shoot?’

“His voice rose into a shriek of agony.
What was loft of one arm had sloughed
off—tho other was almost gone. A little
mound of gray grew larger at his feet.
His flesh was consumed; skin, blood and
bone, absorbed by that vile gray Thing,
and ho shrieked in agony and prayer.
Both arms were gone, and the stuff at
his fcot had already begun to cal
through his boots.

“I shot him—between his eyes. I saw
him fall, and I fainted. When 1 came to,
there was only a mound of tiny gray
fungi, greedily reaching their hellish
tentacles for sustenance and slowly
shriveling up into tiny light gray specks
of dust on a glossy patch of sand.”

Savants No Longer Know All Things

“A/TEN in the business of knowing things have taken a
tip from the plumbers, carpenters and plasterers,”
announced Friar McCollister, one of the University of Chi¬
cago literati. “No longer is it possible to go to a hoary old
gentleman with a pile of books and a skull on his desk and
ask him any question, from the date of the birth of Coper¬
nicus to the conjugations of the verb ‘to know’ in Sanscrit,
and get an answer. The scholar nowadays has learned to
say what the plumber says when you ask him to fix the hole
he has made in the wall: ‘That is not in my department.’ I
found this out the other day when I tried to get some in¬
formation on the discovery of a human skull three million

“First, I went to the information office of the University.
There I encountered a sprightly young man who turned out
to be a professor of sociology. But he didn’t know any¬
thing about men three million years old. He only studied
living men, he said. ‘Better go over to Haskell Museum,’ he
told me. ‘They have some skulls and mummies over there.’

“I ran up three flights of stairs and into a dusty old room
where I saw a Dr. Edgerton. He was copying strange char¬

acters out of a ‘book yellow with age. When I put my ques¬
tion he replied that the only ancients he knew were Egyptian
mummies. He said I should see an anthropologist. Back to
the information office to see where they kept the anthropol¬
ogists.

“They sent me up to Walker Museum, where a bland
young man said, ‘Freddie Starr is not in, but you don’t want
an anthropologist, anyway. You want to see an ethnologist. ’

“When I found one, after dogging him all over the cam¬
pus, he told me that the matter really belonged in the de¬
partment of geology. From there they sent me to see the
department of paleontology. At last I located it in a cubby¬
hole of a museum which I didn’t even know was there, al¬
though I have been on the campus three years.

“ ’But, my dear sir,’ replied the head of the department to
my qnestion, ‘that is not in my department. What you want
is a vertebrate paleontologist, and I am only a plain pale¬
ontologist. At present we have no vertebrate paleontologist
at the University. The last one died a few years ago.’

“Well, I gave up my search,” said Mr. McCollister. “This
age of specialization is too much for me.”

Ancient Legend Recalled When Misfortune Attends
Tut’s Discoverers

T HERE is an old legend to the effect that whoever moleets
the final resting-plaoe of a Pharaoh will be afflicted with
the curse of the anoient rulers; and recent events have re¬
vived this superstition.

After thirty-three years of patient, ceaseless toil, Howard
Carter, the now famous Egyptologist, discovered the tomb of
a powerful Pharaoh. He was a very sincere man, and de¬
voted to his life work all of his energy. Just when success
and reward for his labor Was within his grasp, he was
stricken down with a baffling disease. His condition became
very serious and physicians said that if he lived he would
probably be an invalid for a long time. Shortly before
Carter’s illness, Lord Carnarvon, who was financing the ex¬
pedition, and who was personally supervising the work,
suddenly died.

Nobody seems to know just what killed him. Borne attri¬
bute his death to the effects of an insect bite, some say that
he was poisoned by some ancient death-potion with which he
came in contact while in the tomb, and others declare that
his death was the vengeance of King Tut-Ankh-Amen.

If such a legend could be credited anywhere, the Theban
valley would be that place. By day nothing disturbs the
place except the sound of the pick-axes and shovels of the
native workmen. By night the stillness is broken only by
the hooting of owls and the cries of jackals and wild-cats.
The spectator is awed by the solemnity Of the great, preci¬
pitous sandstone cliffs that stand sentinel on either side of
the valley. In the midst of the silence and solitude one
feels himself standing on the brink of two worlds, gazing
into a vista of the unknown.

The Author of “Whispering Wires" Offers Another
Thriller to WEIRD TALES Readers—

The Voice in the Fog

By HENRY LEVERAGE

Mp"1HE SERIPEVS was a ten thou- The ordinary and usual—the up and
I sand ton, straight how oCean down the trade routes—passed. away
-*• tanker, and her history was the from the Seriphus when Ezra Morgan,
common one of Clyde-built ships—a voy- senior captain in the service of William
age here and a passage there, charters Henningay and Sou, took over the
by strange oil companies, petrol for Bra- tanker and drove her bow into strange
zil, crude petroleum that went to Asia Eastern seas, loading with oil at Cali-
(for anointment purposes among the fornia and discharging cargo in a hun-
heathen) and once there was a hurried dred unknown ports,
call to some unpronounceable Aegean
port where the Seriphus acted against
the Turks in their flare-up after the
Great War.

of the Orient and traded with them, on
the ride, for all that he could gain for
s own personal benefit.

Trading skippers and engineers with
an inclination toward increasing wage
by rum-running and smuggling were
common in the Eastern service. Ezra
Morgan’s rival in that direction aboard
the Seriphus ruled the engine-room and
took pride in declaring that every pas¬
sage was a gold mine for the skipper and

The chief engineer of the Seriphus
saw no glory in steam, save dollars; he
mopped up oil to save money. His name
was Paul Richter—a brutal-featured
man given to boasting about his daugh¬
ter, ashore, and what a lady he was
making of her.

Paul Richter—whom Morgan hated
and watched—was far too skilled in any-
, thing pertaining to steam and its rami-

Of Ezra Morgan it was said that he fications to be removed from his position
had the daring of a "Norseman and the aboard the Seriphus. Henningay, Senior,
thrift of a Maine Yankee; he worked the believed in opposing forces on his many
Seriphus for everything the tanker tankers—it led to rivalry and efficiency,
could give William Henningay and Son; instead of closeheadedness and schem-
he ranted against the outlandish people ing against owners.

THE VOICE IN THE. FOG

pZEA MORGAN .hastened such re-
*■' paira as Were required for making
the Seriphus ready for sea; the tanker
left the dry-dock, steamed out the
Golden Gate, and took aboard oil at a
Southern California port

All tanks, a well-lashed deck load of
eased-lubricant—consigned to a railroad
in Manchuri—petroleum for the fur¬
naces, brought the Seriphus down to the
PlimsoU Mark; she drove from shore
and crossed the Pacific where, at three
God-forsaken Eastern roadsteads, she
unloaded and made agents for the oil-
purchasers happy with shipments de¬
livered on time.

Tlje romance of caravan routes, and
pale kerosene lamps burning in Tartar
tents, escaped both Ezra Morgan and
Richter; they went about their business
of changing American and English
minted gold for certain contrabands
much wanted in the States. The chief
engineer favored gum-opium as a road
to-riches; Ezra dealt in liquors and silks,
uncut gems and rare laces.

Fortunately for the chief engineer’s
peace of mind, the spare, double-end
Scotch boiler was not used on the Rus¬
sian voyage Gathright was forgotten
and Hylda, safe in an eastern music
school, was not likely to take up with
another objectionable lover. Richter,
relieved of 1 a weight, went about the en¬
gine-room and boiler-room humming a
score of tunes, all set to purring dyna¬
mos, clanking pumps, and musical cross¬
heads.

At mid-Paciftc, on a second voyage—
this time to on oilless country, if ever
there were one, Mindanao—a frightened
water-tender came through the bulkhead
door propelled by scalding steam, and
there was much to do aboard the Seri¬
phus. The port boiler had blown out a
tube; the spare, midship boiler was filled
with fresh water and the oil-jets started.

Rielitcr, stripped to the waist, it be¬
ing one hundred and seventeen degrees
hot on deck, drove his force to super¬
human effort. Ezra Morgan, seven hours
after the accident, had the steam and
speed he ordered, in no uncertain tones,
through the bridge speaking-tube.

Fergerson, a quiet man always, had
occasion, the next day, to enter the
chief’s cabin, where Richter sat writing
a letter to Hylda, which ho expected to
post via a homeward bound ship. Rich¬
ter glared at the second engineer.

“That spare boiler—” began Ferger-

“What of it*”

“Well, mou, it’s been foamin’ an’ a
gauge-glass broke, an’ there’s something

“We can’t repair th’ port boiler until
we reach Mindanao.”

. Fergerson turned to go.

“Ye have m’ report,” he said acidly.
“That boiler’s bewitched, or some-
thin*.”

“Go aftl” snarled Richter, who re¬
sumed writing his letter.

He hesitated once, chewed on the end
of the pen, tried to frame the words he
wanted to say to Hylda. Then he
went on:

"—expect to return to San Fran¬
cisco within thirty-five days. Keep
up your music—forget Gathright —
I’ll get you a good man, with
straight shoulders and a big for¬
tune, when I come back and have
time to look around.”

Richter succeeded in posting the let¬
ter, along with the Captain’s mail, when
the Seriphus spoke a Government eol-
lier that afternoon and sheered close
enough to toss a package aboard. Ezra
Morgan leaned over the bridge-rail and
eyed the smudge of smoke and plume of
steam that came from the tanker’s
squat funnel. He called for Richter,
who climbed the bridge-ladder to the
captain’s side.

“We’re only logging nine, point five
knots,” said Ezra Morgan. “Your steam
it low—it’s getting lower. What’s th’
matter? Saving oil?”

“That spare boiler is foaming,” the
chief explained.

“Damn you and your spare boiler!
What business had you leaving San
Francisco with a defective boiler? Your
report to Mr. Henninguy stated that
everything was all right in engine-room
and boiler-room.”

“Foam comes from soap or—some¬
thing else in the water.”

. “Something else—”

Richter got away from Ezra Morgan
on a pretense of going below to the
boiler-room. Instead of going below,
however, he went aft and leaned over

feared that spare boiler and the con¬
sequence of conscience.

Limping, with three-quarters of the
necessary steam pressure, the Sbriphus
reached Mihdanao and was forced to re¬
turn to California without repairs to
the port boiler. While repairs, new
tubes and tube-sheet were put in place
by boilersmiths, Richter saw his daiigh-

The change in her was pronounced;
she spoke not at all of Gathright, whose
disappearance she could not understand;
and Richter, keen where his daughter

was concerned, realized that her thin¬
ness and preoccupation was on account
of the missing electrician.

“I get you a fine fellow,” he prom¬
ised Hylda.

He brought several eligible marine
engineers to the house. Hylda snubbed
them and cried in secret.

An urgent telegram called Richter
back to the Seriphus. He made two long
voyages, one down Chili-way, the other
half around the world, before the tank¬
er’s bow was turned toward California.
Much time had elapsed from the night
he had thrust Gathright into the spare
boiler and turned on the oil-jets be¬
neath its many tubes. Once, in Val¬
paraiso, an under,engineer pointed out
red rust leaking from the gauge-glass of
the spare boiler.

“Looks like blood,” commented this
engineer.

Richter scoffed, but that afternoon he
drank himself stupid on kummel, ob¬
tained from an engineer’s, club ashore.
Another time, just after the tanker left
the port of Aden on her homebound pas¬
sage, a stowaway crawled out from be¬
neath the cold boiler and gave Richter
the fright of his life.

“Why, mon,” said Fergerson, who
was present in the boiler-room, “that’s
only a poor wisp o’ an Arab.”

“I thought it was a ghost,” blabbered
Riehter.

Barometer pressure rose when the
, Seriphus neared mid-Pacifle. Ezra Mor¬
gan predicted a typhoon before the
tanker was on the longitude of Guam.
Long rollers came slicing across the
Seriphus’ bow, drenched the forecastle,
filled the ventilators and flooded the
boiler-room.

Richter went below, braced himself in
the rolling engine-room, listened to his
engines clanking their sturdy song, then
waddled over the gratings and ducked
below the beam that marked the bulk¬
head door. An oiler in high rubber-
boots lunged toward the chief engineer.

“There’s something inside th’ spare
boiler 1” shouted the man. “Th’boiler-
room crew won’t work, sir.”

Richter waded toward a frightened
group all of whom were staring at the
spare boiler. A hollow rattling sounded
when the tanker heaved and pitched—
as if some one were knocking bony
knuckles againt the -stubborn iron

“A loose bolt,” whispered Richter.
“Keep th’ steam to th’ mark, or I’ll
wipe a StiDson across th’ backs of all
of you,” he added in a voice that they
could hear and understand.

Superstition, due to the menacing
storm and high barometer, the uncanny

■WEIRD TALES

noises in the racked boiler-room, Rich¬
ter’s bullying manner, put fear in the
hearts of the deck crew. Oil-pipes dog¬
ged, pumps refused to work, valves stuck
and could scarcely be moved,

“I’ve noo doot,” Fergerson told his
Chief, “there’s a ghost taken up its

T HE BAROMETER became un¬
steady, the sky hazy, the air melt¬
ing hot, and a low, rugged doud bank
appeared over the Seriphus’ port bow.

Down fdl the barometer, a half-inch,
almost, and the avalanche of rain and
wind that struck the freighter was as if
Thor was hammering her iron plates.

Ezra Morgan, unable to escape from
the typhoon’s center, prepared to ride
out the storm by bringing the Seriphus
up until she had the sea oh. the bow, and
he had hdd her there by going half
Speed ahead. A night of terror ruled
the tanker; the decks were awash, stays
snapped, spume rose and dashed over
the squat funnel aft the bridge.

Morning, red-hued, with greenish
patches, revealed a harrowed ocean,
waves of tidal height, and astern lay a
battered hulk—a freighter, dismasted,
smashed, going down slowly by the bow.

“A Japanese tramp,” said Ezra Mor¬
gan. “Some Marau or other, out of the
Carolines bound for Yokohama.”

Richter, stupid from trade-gin was
on the bridge with the Yankee skipper.

“We can’t help her,” the engineer
said heavily. “I think we got all we
can do to save ourselves.”

Ezra Morgan entertained another
opinion. The
sided, and the wind was lighter, but the
waves were higher than ever he had
known them. They broke over the
doomed freighter like surf on a reef
“Yon’s a distress signal flying,” said
Ezra Morgan. “There’s a few seamen
aft that look like drowned rats. We’ll
go before tk’ sea—I’ll put th’ sea abart
th’ beam, an well outboard oil enough
to lower a small-boat an’ take those men
off that freighter.”

The maneuver was executed, the screw
turned slowly, oil was poured through
the waste-pipes and spread magically
down the wind until the freighter ’3 deck,
from aft the forehouse, could be seen

Over the patch of comparative calm
oars dipped, and a mate, in charge of
the small boat lowered from the Seri¬
phus, succeeded in getting off the sur¬
vivors who were clinging to the freight-

at lived in a sea that had :

_„ drips. It returned to the

tanker’s bow; and the four men, bruised,
broken, all half-dead from immersion,
were hoisted to the forepeak and taken
aft. Two were Japanese sailors and two
' ' ' operator

. The ei

sr bhd a

broken leg which required setting, and
the wireless operator was in a bad fix;
wreckage had stove in his features,
and twisted his limbs.

Ezra Morgan was a rough and ready
surgeon-doctor; he turned the Seriphus
over to the first-mate and made a sick
room out of Richter’s cabin. The chief
protested.

“Get below to your damn steam!”
roared Ezra Morgan. “You hated to
see me bring aboard these poor seamen;
you said I wasted fuel oil; your breath
smells like a gin-mill. Below with you,

“Better stay near your boilers,” ad¬
vised the captain. “Everything’s gone
to hell, sir, since you changed from

“Are not th’ injured seamen well
yeti”

“Th’ wireless chip’s doing all right
—but th’ engineer of that Japanese
freighter is hurt internally. You can’t
have that cabin, this side of San Fran-

and boiler-room of
the tanker, she being in water ballast,
was not unlike an inferno; the first-
mate, acting on Ezra Morgan’s instruc¬
tions, drove the Seriphus at three-quar-

the ship rolled and yawed, tossed, set¬
tled down astern, then her screw raced
in mingled foam and brine.

Richter’s stomach belched gas; he be¬
came sea-sick, climbed into a foul-smell¬
ing “ditty-box” of a cabin, aft the en¬
gine-room, and attempted to sleep off
the effect of the gin. Pictnre-post-cards;
mostly of actresses, a glaring electric
over the bunk, oil and water swishing
the metal deck below, and the irritating
clank of irregular-running engines drove
sleep away from him.

. the silent
into the “ditty-box” at eight bells,

or jour o’clock. Fergerson’s --

jerked forward.

“IT1 have t’ use that spare 1

"Use it,” said Richter.

Steam was gotten up on the spare,
double-end Scotch boiler; the starboard
boiler was allowed to cool; Fergerson,
despite the tanker’s rolling motion, suc¬
ceeded in satisfying Ezra Morgan by
keeping up the three-quarter speed set
by the skipper.

Richter sobered when the last of the
trade-gin was gone; the Seriphus was
between Guam and ’Frisco; the heavy
seas encountered were the afterkick of

“What were tv
that cheap service?”

Ezra Morgan glanced sharply at
Richter.

“Everybody isn’t money mad—like
you. There’s many a good engineer,
and mate, too, in th’ Japanese Merchant
Marine. Nippon can teach us a thing
or two—particularly about keeping
Scotch boilers up to th’ steaming point.”

This cut direct sent Richter off the
bridge; he encountered a bandaged and
goggled survivor of the freighter’s
wreck at the head of the engine-room
ladder. The wireless operator, leaning
on a crutch whittled by a bo’sain, avoid¬
ed Richter, who pushed him roughly
aside and descended the ladder, back¬
ward.

White steam, lurid oaths, Seotch ana¬
thema from the direction of the boiler-
room, indicated more trouble. Fergerson
came from forward and bumped into
Richter, so thick was the escaping va¬
por.

“Out o’ my way, mon,” the second
engineer started to say, then clamped
his tongue.

“What’s happened, now!” queried
Richter.

“It’s that wicked spare boiler—she’s
aleak an’ foamin,’ an’ there’s water in
th’ fire-boxes.”

Richter inclined his bullet shaped
head; he heard steam hissing and oilers
cursing the day they had signed on the
Seriphm. A blast when a gasket gave
way, hurtled scorched men between
Richter and Fergerson; a whine sound¬
ed from the direction of the boiler-room,
the whine rose to an unearthly roar:
Richter saw a blanket of white vapor
floating about the engine’s cylinders.
This vapor, to his muddled fancy, seemed
to contain the figure of a man wrapped
in a winding shroud.

He clapped both hands over his eyes,
hearing above the noise of escaping
steam a call so distinct it chilled his
blood.

“Eyldal”

THE VOICE IN THE FOG

NTOW there was that in the ghostly

' voice that brought Richter’s gin-
swollen brain to the realization of the
thing he had done in disposing of Gath-
right by bolting him in the spare boiler.

No good luck had followed that ac¬
tion; Hylda was still disconsolate; trade
and smuggling was at a low ebb; there
was talk, aboard and ashore, of reducing
engineers’ and skippers’ wage to the

Richter had a Teutonic stubbornness;
Ezra Morgan had certainly turned
against his cliicf engineer; the thing to
do was to lay the ghostly voice, make
what repairs were necessary in the
boiler-room, and give (he tanker’s en¬
gines the steam they needed in order to
make a quick return passage to San
Francisco and please the Hcnningays.

An insane rage mastered Richter—
the same red-vision he had experienced
when he threw Gathright out of his
daughter’s house. He lowered his bul¬
let head, brushed the curling vapors
from his eyes, and plunged through the
bulkhead door, bringing up in scalding
steam before the after end of the mid¬
ship, or spare boiler.

Grotesquely loomed all three boilers.
They resembled humped-camels kneeling
in a narrow shed by some misty river.
Steam in quantity came hissing from the
central camel; out of the furnace-doors,
from a feed-pipe’s packing, around a
flange where the gange-glass was riv¬
eted.

The Seriphus climbed a long Pacific
roller, steadied, then rocked in the
trough between seas; iron plates, grat¬
ings, flue-cleaners, scrapers, clattered
around Richter who felt the flesh on
neck and wrist rising into water blisters.

No one had thought to close the globe-
valve in the oil supply line, or to ex¬
tinguish the flres beneath the spare and
leaking boiler. Richter groped through
a steam cloud, searching for the hand-
wheel on the pipe line. All the metal
he touched was simmering hot.

A breath of sea air came down .a ven¬
tilator ; Richter gulped this air and tried
to locate the globe-valve with the iron
wheel. Vision cleared, he saw the red
and open mouth of the central camel—
the flannel-like flames and he heard
through toothed-bars a voice calling,
“Hylda!”

Fcrgerson and a water tender drag¬

ged their chief from the boiler room by
the heels; blistered, with the skin peeled
from his features, Richter’s eyes resem¬
bled hot coals in their madness- Blab¬
bering nonsense, the engineer gave one
understandable order:

“Put out th’ fire, draw th’ water,
search inside th’ spare boiler—there’s
something there, damitl”

Ezra Morgan came below, while the
spare boiler was cooling, and entered
Richter’s temporary cabin—the “ditty-
box” with the play actresses’ pictures
glued everywhere. Fergerson had ap¬
plied rude doctoring—gauze bandages
soaked in petroleum—on face and arms.

“What’s th’ matter, man?” asked
Ezra Morgan. “Have you gone mad?”

“I heard some one calling my daugh¬
ter, Hylda.”

“Where do you keep your gint”

“It’s gone! Th’ voice was there in¬
side th’ spare boiler. Did Fergerson
look ; did he find a skeleton, or—”

Ezra Morgan pinched Richter’s left
arm, jabbed home a hypodermic contain¬
ing morphine, and left the chief en¬
gineer to sleep out his delusions. Fer¬
gerson came to the “ditty-box” some
watches later. Richter sat up.

“What was in th’ spare boiler?”
asked the chief.

“Scale, soda, a soapy substance.”

“Nothing else?”

“Why, mon, that’s enough to make
her foam.”

Richter dropped back on the bunk
and closed bis lashless eyes.

“Suppose a man, a stowaway, had
crawled through th’ aft man-hole, an’
died inside th’ boiler? Would that make
it foam—make th’ soapy substance?”

“When could any stowaway do
that?”

Richter framed his answer craftily;
“Say it was done when th’ Seriphus was
at Oakland that time th’ boilers were

in dry-dock.”

in drew on his memory. “Th’
time, mon, ye went aboard an’ tested th’
spare boiler? Th’ occasion when ye took
th’ trouble to rig up a shore-hose in
order to fill th’ boiler wi’ water?”

“Yes.” ,

“Did ye ha’ a man-hole plate off th’
boiler?”

“I removed th’ after-end plate, then
went for th’hose. We had no steam up,

motor-driven.”

“Ye think a mon might ha’.crawled
through to th’ boiler during your ab-

“Yc may b’ right—but if one did he
could ha’ escaped by th’ fore man-hole
plate. I had that oft, an’ wondered who
put it back again so carelessly. Ye know
th’ boiler is a double-cnder—wi’ twa

Richter was too numbed to show sur¬
prise. Fergerson loft tho “ditty-box”
and pulled shut the door. The tanker,
under reduced steam, made slow head¬
way toward San Francisco.

One morning, a day out from sound¬
ings, the chief engineer awoke, felt
around in the gloom, and attempted to
switch on tho electric light.

He got up and threw his legs over tho
edge of the bunk. A msn sat leaning
against the after plate. Richter blinked;
the man, from the goggles on him and
the crutch that lay across his knees, was
the wireless operator who had been res¬
cued from a sea grave.

“No need for light,” said tho visitor
in a familiar voice. “You can guess
who I am, Richter.”

“A ghost!” said the chief. “Gath-
right’s ghost! Come to haunt me!”

“Not exactly to haunt you. I assure
you I am living flesh—somewhat twist¬
ed, but living. I got out of that mid¬
ship boiler, while you were bolting me
in so securely. I waited until you went
on deck for a hose, and replaced the
after man-hole cover. I was stunned
and lay hidden aboard for two days
Then I looked for Hylda. She was gone.
I shipped as electrician for a port in
Japan. I knocked around a bit—at ra¬
dio work for the Japanese. It was
chance that the Seriphus should have
picked me up from the Nippon Mam."

“That voice calling for Hylda,” cried
Richter.

“Was a little reminder that I sent
through the boiler-room ventilator; I
knew you were down there, Richter.”

The marine engineer switched on the
electric light

“What do you.want?” he whined to
Gathright.

“Hylda—your daughter!”

Paul Richter covered his eyes.

“If she will atone for the harm I have
done you, Gathright, she is yours with
her father’s blessing.”

The Invisible Terror

An Uncanny Tale of the Jungle

O LD MAN Jess Benson, eattldnmn
and mine owner, rode across the
high plateau, which divided the
rich grazing lands between Kock Valley
and Slater Canyon, and let his horse
pick its way down the steep slope to
Slater Creek. Here, as the sorrel slaked
its thirst, the big man in the saddle
filled and lighted his pipe, while his eyes
roved slowly through the sprinkle of cot¬
tonwoods which fringed the creek.

About fifty feet upstream, close to a
large bowlder and partly behind a dump
of stunted plum bushes, half a dozen
magpies were quarreling over something
that the rider could not dearly distin¬
guish. He could merely see a dark blotch
behind the bushes—the carcass of a cow
or steer probably—and he watched the
beautiful black-and-white birds specula¬
tively as they uttered thdr shrill, rau¬
cous cries, and fluttered about the
thicket.

Since there was a possibility, however,
that the dead animal might be carrying
his own brand, Benson finally turned his
horse in the direction of the birds. Half
a minute later, having reached a spot
from which he could command a dear
view of the thing that lay behind the
bushes, his tanned cheeks went ashen,
and he swung himself to the ground with
an exclamation of horrified surprise.

Close to the thicket, and five or six feet
from the rock, the body of a man was
huddled in the horrible posture of one
who has met a violent end.

He was lying partly on his side, one
leg drawn up, the other outstretched,
while both arms were bent under him.
His face and neck were terribly tom and
mangled, and his flannd shirt had been
ripped half off his body, which was
bruised and covered with wounds.
Several paces away was a trampled felt
hat, and the muzzle of a revolver peeped
from beneath the body, its butt evidently
clutched in the stiffened fingers of one
hand. For a dozen feet the ground was
tom and trampled, as though a terrible
straggle had taken place.

For several minutes Benson stood still
and eyed the ghastly thing in horrified
fascination. Long experience as a range
rider told him that the body and the
signs of conflict about it could not be

By HUGH THOMASON

mom than forty-eight hours old—the
thing had happened since a heavy rain
of two days before—and it slowly
dawned on the cattleman that the dead
man was Nathan Smith, a neighbor of
his, who owned a small farm some five or
six miles away.

For some time he studied the body
and the surrounding soil very carefully,
noting especially that the soft earth was
covered with large, doglike tracks; then
he went to his horse and untied his
slicker from the back of the saddle. With
this garment he managed to cover the
body so that the magpies could no longer
reach it. Then he mounted his horse
and rode off toward Elktooth, ten miles
away.

Sheriff Parker and Doctor Morse, the
coroner, happened to be together in the
latter’s office when Benson entered and
told his story. Both men listened with¬
out any particular comment, and at the
end the sheriff got to ins feet

“I’ll run you out in the car, Horace,”
he informed the coroner. “We can
reach the spot easily enough by follow¬
ing the old road up the creek From
what Benson says, the thing does not
look like a crime exactly—it seems more
like the work of wolves, though I never
heard of any attacking a man in this
region; but you can never telL At any
rate, we’d better look into it as soon
as we can.”

It was about an hour later when the
three men got out of the machine and
walked the few feet which separated
them from the scene of the tragedy.
Lifting the slicker. Doctor Morse stooped
over the gruesome object beneath it,
while Sheriff Parker gazed at the trodden
ground with interest While the coroner
made his examination, the little officer
paced around the thicket, eying the
tracks thoughtfully; more than once he
stooped to apply a pocket rule to some
especially distinct impression, and twice
he whistled softly to himself. By the
time the doctor’s examination had ended,
he was turning a speculative eye toward
a dim trail which led off at right angles
through the cottonwoods.

Returning from washing his hands at
the edge of the stream, Doctor Morse
looked at his friend in contemplative

silence, as he lighted a cigar and puffed
at it nervously.

“Weill” fhe sheriff questioned, at
length. “What was it? What killed
him, Horace?”

“Bless me if I know, Bert, I never
saw anything like this before in all my
experience. It was an animal of some
kind, I should say; a wolf, perhaps, al¬
though, as you said, the few wolves wc
have hereabouts have never been known
to attack humans. But the man is
frightfully mangled, his jugular vein
is quite torn out of him. Had his gun
in his hand, too. It’s empty. He must
have fought the thing hard, whatever it
was. I wonder—could it have been the

Sheriff Parker nodded in an absent

trail through the trees and weeds.

“I think it was,” he said. “This spot
is only a little way removed from where
the creature has been in the habit of
roaming, and poor Smith, I suppose, was
caught here after dark. These tracks
match those we found near Moore, and
they look pretty fresh. How long should
you say he has been dead?”

“Killed early last night, I should
judge,” was the doctor’s answer. “He
died hard; too, poor chap. Look ut that
ground.”

Jess Benson, with horror written all
over his honest features, had been star¬
ing at the two men as they talked. Big,
burly, outdoor giant that he was, he
seemed to be in the grip of a kind of
terror—or was it awe?—that made him
incapable of speech.

“Heavens, what an end I” he burst
out at length. “What are we going to
do, sheriff? How’ll we ever get the
thing that killed him?”

Sheriff Parker made no answer. He
merely continued to search the ground
around the body for a few minutes
longer, as though he wished to make
doubly sure that his suspicions were cor¬
rect; then he helped the others wrap the
body in a blanket and stow it in the car.
Five minutes later, save for the trampled
ground and some dull-brown, ominous
stains on the grass, there was no sign of
the tragedy apparent.

101

Two lours later, seated at his own
desk with a cigar between his teeth,
Sheriff Parker squinted through his
glasses at Doctor Morse, who sat oppo-

“I tell you, Horace,” the sheriff was
saying, “it is such a thing as never has
been known before. If I had not been
studying the results of this creature’s
work for the past six weeks, I could not
believe that such a thing could be. Still,
it must be sol Poor Jack Moore, he was
the first victim; we were morally certain
that the thing got him; then that strange
waving of the alfalfa in Pollard’s moad-
ow, and now this. I tell you, it’s
awful, Horace 1”

“It,is; it’s more than that, Bert; it’s
unnatural.” Doctor Morse puffed jerk¬
ily at his cigar. “And yet, science
tells us that there arc sounds the ear
cannot detect, why not colors the eye
cannot see* Take the only time the
beast, or the ‘plague;’ as we have begun,
to call it, appeared in daylight. I mean
that uncanny agitation in Pollard’s
hayfield that afternoon, when some
heavy creature thrashed about there. It
could be heard, and the alfalfa, moved,
but the thing itself could not be seen,
though three different people stood
watching.”

“You are quite right, Horace; and I
have already spent a great many sleep¬
less nights milling over that ‘neutral
color’ theory. Recently I have read
that at the end of the solar spectrum
there are things known as actjnic rays.
They represent colors—integral colors in
the composition of light—which we are
unable to discern with the naked eye.
The human eye is, after all, an imper¬
fect instrument. Undoubtedly there are
colors which we cannot see, and this
beast, this scourge of the neighborhood,
is of some such color.”

'“Aside from its color,” the coroner
mused, “the creature is tangible enough.
It leaves a track in the ground larger
by far than that of a full-grown timber
wolf, and it certainly can fight Benson
says his hounds were soundly thrashed
by it last week, you know, and there is
Smith. He was a very powerful man,
and armed, but, so far as we know, the
thing killed him and got away un¬
scathed. The man’s body looked as if
it had been struck by a train. The chest
and sides might have been beaten in with
a sledge, his clothes were tom to shreds,
and’as for his throat—well, the less said
about that the better.”

Sheriff Parker said nothing for several
minutes. Getting to his feet, he began
to pace slowly back and forth across the
room, fingers interlaced behind his back

and head boWed in’the way he sometimes
affected when in deep thought.

He was struggling with a problem the
like of which he had never before
tackled 1 ; and as he watched him, the cor¬
oner, in his turn, strove to devise some
method of wiping out the creature which
was terrorizing the entire valley.

A LMOST SIX weeks before. Jack
**■ Moore, a stock inspector, whose
duties often carried him far out into the
thinly settled portions of the country,
had been found dead under circum¬
stances similar in every way to those
surrounding Smith’s end.

At first, the authorities and general
public had attributed the death to timber
wolves, for the sole reason that they
could attribute it to nothing else. The
tracks about the body, though exceeding¬
ly largo, were shaped like a wolf’s, and
the body itself had been tom and
mangled as by some carniverous animal.

Soon after Moore’s death came the
killing of a dozen sheep in their pasture,
and, on the heels of this, Judson Pollard,
a prosperous farmer whose word was
beyond dispute, with two of his hired
men, had seen something rush through
an alfalfa meadow—something that they
could not make out, though it was broad
daylight, and they could see the tall hay
wave and shake, and could even hear the
creature a i it thrashed about there.

Then Jess Benson’s hounds, a pack of
fourteen, which had never met its match
in numerous encounters with wolves and
coyotes, had been soundly whipped, and
three of its number killed outright in a
fight with some animal which their
owner could not see, although he had
witnessed the fight from a distance.

Now, as a climax to the whole business,
bad come Nathan Smith’s horrible
death; and no man could say who or
what would be the next victim. No
wonder the entire county could talk of
little else, and that the creature, what¬
ever it was, had been named the

As he thought over all these things for
the hundredth time, Sheriff Parker
cudgeled Ins' brain in an effort to form
some plan for trapping and killing the
beast. He knew that there must be a
way, somehow, to make an end of the
terror, even though the most skillful
trappers and hunters in the district had
failed to discover it The animal’s range
was known. It seemed, for the most
part, to frequent the country between
Slater Creek and "White Horse Moun¬
tain, probably because this region con¬
tained plenty of timber and natural
shelter; and it was in this region that

it must be cornered. For many years
the little sheriff had studied the crimes

just cause to boast of outwitting him;
but this was a different task.

“Horace,” the sheriff burst out final¬
ly, coming to an abrupt halt in front
of his friend, “this butchery has gone
far enough. We must put an end to it.
What do you say to trying this very
night 1 The beast seems to roam mostly
at night, and tonight will be moonlight.
We’ll try to trap it at tho Black Pool.”

Doctor Morse stared at the speaker in
surprise.

“The Black Pool!” he repeated. “Arc
you crazy, Bertf To be sure, we have
discovered, so far as possible at any rate,
that the beast seems to frequent tho pool
more than any other one spot; but how
can we trap it* That has already been
tried more than once.”

“True, Horace; but we shall try in a
different way. This thing, whatever it
is, though it can’t be seen, can be felt
and heard; therefore it must have a solid
body, so to speak. , It leaves a distinct
trail, yon know, and its victims are Rroof
enough that it is a creature of flesh and
blood. My Bcheme is to moke it visible
—then, if we are lucky, we can shoot it. ’ ’

The coroner jumped to his feet in his

"I see what you mean!” he cried.
“Why haven’t we thought of that be¬
fore! But how, Bert—how will you do
itt”

“That remains to be seen.” Sheriff
Parker smiled oddly as he looked at his
companion. “If you are willing to risk
the thing with me, I think I have a
plan that will work. We’ll leave here
in the car about four this afternoon; that
will get us to the pool in plenty of time
to set our trap before dark. Bring along
your repeating shotgun—a heavy charge
of buckshot is far more certain after
dark than a rifle ball, and we can’t

ingly.

“I shall not fail you, Bert,” he said.

YEARLY DUSK found the two men in
^ the sheriff’s car slowly picking their
way over the stony trail which led to
the Black Pool. In the bottom of the
tonneau was a ten-gallon keg, three or
four short boards, and something
wrapped in burlap, while the back seat
held a pair of repeating shot guns and a
box of cartridges. A hundred yards
from the pool, at the foot of a little
hill, Sheriff Parker killed his engine and
stepped out onto the ground.

“We’d better leave the car here,” he
remarked. “It is best not to make any

WEIRD TALES

102

more disturbance in the immediate vicin¬
ity of the pool than we can help, and we
can easily carry what we need from here.
But let’s look around a bit first.”

Together, carrying their loaded guns
in the manner of men who wish to be
prepared against any sudden emergency,
they made their way through a fringe of
trees to the edge of the black, still water,
which gave the pool its name. Even by
daylight the place was far from cheerful.
The pool, about seventy feet in diameter,
was entirely surrounded by trees which
grew to within a few feet of its oily

There was no sign of life about the
place, not even a frog croaked, and the
muddy banks bore mute testimony that
none of the many cattle which roamed
that region had been there to drink for
many days. In one place only was the
mud broken by fresh tracks; and when
his eyes fell on this spot, the sheriff
smiled grimly.

“Yoh see them, Horace,” he said,
pointing. “The thing has been here re¬
cently—its trail is as plain as day; this
must be its drinking place. Now for our
little trap.”

Returning to the car, the two men, first
earned the keg to the foot of a large
tree which stood only a few yards from
where the “plague” had approached the
pool; then thoy got the boards apd the
other articles, which, on being un¬
wrapped, proved to be a brass hand
pump, with a long spray nozzle, and
about a dozen feet of hose.

Doctor Morse regarded this contriv¬
ance with considerable perplexity. He
could not see of what use it could be in
the task that lay ahead of them; but
when he expressed his puzzlement, his
companion laughed softly.

“It’s really very simple,” he ex¬
plained, “although it is merely an ex¬
periment of my own, and may not work
as I hope it will. The keg iB full of
whitewash, and this pump will throw a
steady stream for over thirty feet. If
we can get the brute within range, my
idea is to spray him with Whitewash
until we can see enough of him to" shoot
at. White always shows up fairly well
in the dark. Catch the idea?”

Doctor Morse gazed at his friend in
surprised admiration for an instant;
then he impulsively caught his hand in a
hard grip.

“You’re a wonder, Bert!” he ex¬
claimed. “I don’t see how you ever
thought of it, but the scheme looks good
to me. I am honestly beginning to think
we have a chance. But what are those
boards for?”

“For a platform on the tree yonder,”
replied the sheriff, nodding toward a

cotton wood. “For-obvious reasons I
thought it would be safer to do our
watching from above ground, and with
these boards we can construct a support
that will enable us to stay in the tree
with some degree of safety. Of course,
tHe thing may be able to climb, for all
we know, but we must chance thpt. The
tree is within easy range of the water,
and those tall ferns and weeds, if we
watch them closely, should give us warn¬
ing of the beast’s approach. Now let’s
get busy, for it will be dark before we
know it.”

At the end of half an hour, just
as it was actually growing dark wi thin
the shadows of the trees, the two men
had built a substantial platform in a
fork of the cottonwood, some ten feet
from the ground, and established them¬
selves upon it. Sheriff Parker’s gun lay
beside him, while he grasped the nozzle
of the high-pressure pump in his hands;
but the coroner’s weapon was ready for
instant use.

Swiftly the day turned into night, and
for an hour it was as dark as pitch at
the edge of the pool; then the moon,
surrounded by myriads of'stars, slowly
climbed up over the hill-tops beyond the
water. With eyes riveted upon the
ferns, from the movements of which they
expected to be warned of the beast’s
approach, the two mm waited tensely.

For a long time nothing happened.
From the blank darkness around them
came merely the familiar noises of night
in the wilderness—the long, wailing
howl of a distant coyote; the chirping
drone of the tireless insects in the trees;
strange cries of night birds, so different
from those of the birds of the day; the
“plop” of muskrats diving in the still
water, and all the mysterious chorus of

after night has fallen.

Seated on their narrow platform, the
watchers were soon very uncomfortable,

hungry, and the men dared not smoke
for fear the smell of tobacco would give
warning to the thing they sought. Doctor
Morse, eyes fixed on the top of a ridge
which could be seen through a break in
the trees, and beyond which the stars
and the moon seemed to be grouped, was
half dozing, when suddenly he straight¬
ened up with a little start.

A curious thing had taken placet The
stars, rising above the crest of the ridge,
had successively disappeared from right
to left!

Each was blotted out for but an in-

at the same time, but along half the
length Of the ridge, all that were with¬
in a few degrees of the crest were

eclipsed. Something had passed along
between them and the coroner’s line of
vision; but he could not see it, and the
stars were not close enough together to
define its shape. After a second of
tense watching. Doctor Morse reached
out and gripped the sheriff by the arm.

“Did you see it?” he whispered. “It’s

“Yes; but be quiet, for your Ufel”
Sheriff Parker leaned forward and
shifted his grip on the hose nozzle.

For several minutes all was silent,
then, came a faint patter of stealthy feet,

hound sounded below them, while the
ferns waved violently, although there
was no breeze. Almost immediately came
the sounds of lapping in the water-
sounds exactly like those made by a
thirsty dog when drinking.

Taking careful aim with the nozzle,
Sheriff Parker suddenly pumped out a
steady stream of whitewash which began
to splash and spatter on the edge of the
pool and surface of the water. And, as
the milky liquid began to fall, the two
watchers saw a strange and wonderful
thing. In a spot, which ten seconds be¬
fore had been merely opaque darkness,
an outline grew up and took shape out
of the ground; a strange, monstrous,
misshapen thing, squat and hairy, not
unlike a huge wolf in general appear¬
ance, but broader and more powerful
than any wolf either man had ever seen.

began to fall upon it, the thing turned a
big-jawed,- hairy face in the direction of
the tree; then, with a horrible snarl of
fury, which both men plainly heard, it
charged toward them.

“Shoot! Shoot, Horace!” Sheriff
Parker yelled, dropping the useless
nozzle and grabbing his gun.

The two heavy guns, charged with
double loads of buckshot, roared out al¬
most together. There was a coughing
snarl from the thing on the ground,
which save for a white patch or two, was
almost invisible again, and the sound of
convulsive struggling; then the sheriff
fired a second time. Almost immediately
there was a heavy splash in the water;
then absolute silence.

Doctor Morse wiped the cold sweat
from his forehead with a shaking hand.

“Did we get it?” he asked in a low

“Yes, I’m almost sure of it.” Sheriff
Parker, though tremendously excited,
began to lower himself to the ground.
“No animal of the wolf type could stand
up against three charges of buckshot
at less than a dozen yards,” he declared.
“I believe it is dead, Horace.”

(Continued on page 116,1

HELEN ROWE HENZE Spins a Compelling Yarn

THE ESCAPE

WEIRD TALES

dow. Donaldson straightened up,
tightening his lips. Even this early they
might see him. He must appear cashal,
like a man of leisure out for a morning
stroll.

But it was an effort, for an unreason¬
ing fear possessed him. He wanted to
run. Something behind him seemed to
urge his footsteps faster. It seemed to
him that his feet actually were going
faster than the rest of his body, as
though they obeyed the will hf that
something behind him, while he himself
was really moving only at a moderate

He had a detached sense of two
entities. One was John Donaldson as ho
appeared to the world, a slender, incon¬
spicuous'man, walking somewhat timid¬
ly along the street, and the other was the
coward, the terrified being, running
from the .thing that followed him;
alert, cunning to outwit his pursuer.
Once, from do irresistible impulse, he
dodged into an alley-way. Then, sud¬
denly ashamed and realizing, he came
out again, walking boldly, his eyes fixed
on a passing horse, trying to appear un¬
concerned.

Toward noon he returned, and, re¬
membering he had had no breakfast and
that there was nothing to eat in the
house, stopped at the comer grocery
.store. The grocer was waiting on another
customer when Donaldson came in, but
he looked up and nodded.

“Be with you in a minute, Mr. Don¬
aldson.” And then, “Why, what’s the
matter? Are you sick?”

Donaldson had sat down suddenly on
a flour-barrel, clutching his side, his
face gone grey with pain. The groeer
ran to get a glass of water.

“Here, better drink this I What’s the
matter? Can I help you?”

But Donaldson only shook his head
over his knees, unable to speak. They
got him home a little later, when the
pain had eased a little, and sent a doc¬
tor in to see him. Donaldson did not
want a doctor, but the grocer was fright¬
ened by his pale face and paid no at¬
tention to his protests.

The verdict was what Donaldson had
anticipated, appendicitis and the neces¬
sity of an immediate operation. He
heard it, lying on the bed, from a
strange doctor, with a feeling, in spite
of the pain in his side, that it must be
another man under sentence. He could
not take that anesthetic! The pain might
kill him; then let him die! It would be
better than those awful chains. For he
knew that once unconscious, the truth
would come out, that all the poison
which had been maddening him for
years would flow from his lips in self¬

exposure, once he was placed under an
anesthetic. How many times had he al¬
ready related it in the stillness of the
night? What of his secret could the
walls of his room not tell? They must
have heard it'over and over.

The doctor repeated his statement and
Donaldson nodded.

“Yes,” he said mechanically. He
must appease this man, lest a refusal
make him too insistent. When the doctor
was gone, he was safe again. He would
get well. Everybody had these attacks;
they meant nothing.

“I’ll be back to see you tonight,”
said the doctor, as he prepared to leave.

“No,” said Donaldson, “don’t come.
I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be here,” answered the doctor,

Suddenly a great fatigue came over
the sick man, an overwhelming drowsi¬
ness, a desire for sleep, one of the pri¬
mal, insistent, compelling things that
would not be denied.

When he awoke it was quite dark. He
did not know the time. Lights shown in
the houses across the street. The ticking
of the clock was the only noise to be
heard. The darkness of the room seemed
palpable, as though it floated over and
around him, breathing. Then the dock
struck eight. Donaldson remembered.
The doctor was coming back. He might
return any minute. Only he must not!
There were footsteps on the walk. It
was he, and the door was unlocked I
Donaldson rose and started toward it.
He had forgotten his Bide. He was only
conscious of a difficulty in moving, like
in a nightmare, as though weights were
dragging on his feet. The doctor was
on the porch. Donaldson struggled.
What was holding his feet?

“Don’t come in,” he gasped. “I’m
aU right!”

Then came the pain, like a sudden
knife-blade, piercing him. He screamed,
one awful, uncontrollable yell, and
pitched forward.

npHERE WAS A queer, unfamiliar
^ smell, and stillness. Not the empty
stillness of his own house, but the still-

Nausea possessed him. He opened his
eyes for a moment and then closed them.
He was in a white-walled room, dark¬
ened. Against the drawn blind he could
feel the sunlight beating. A ray of it
came in between the shade and the win¬
dow-jamb an£ struck the opposite wall.
It was broad day. Suddenly, quick and
clear as an arrow released from a taut
bow-string, Donaldson’s mind leaped up

He was in a hospital, and it was over
—the operation. It was the anesthetic
which had nauseated him. What had he
said? Had he betrayed himself? Yet
here he was, lying quietly in this room.
However, they couldn’t take him away
while he was sick.

They were waiting—waiting till he
got well to put the'chains on him! He
knew it. That was why they were so
quiet, not to make him suspicious. He
would ask the nurse. She could tell him
whether he had talked.

But the nurse was not there. She did
not know he was awake. Well, he would
wait and ask her. Maybe he hadn’t
talked. People didn’t always. The sun
streamed against the' blind. Light,
hope! It might be that he would see it
again, free! That he would walk'along
the streets in the open day.

The door opened and the nurse en¬
tered. She came to his bedside. He
would smile at her easily, indifferently.
She would think his question a casual

“Nurse,” he began. His voice sound¬
ed far away, weaker than it should

The nurse smiled. “How is my pa¬
tient? Feeling better?”

“Nurse,” he strove valiantly to make
his voice strong, casual. He even smiled
weakly. “Did I—er—talk under the
ether?”

“No, not a word. Now rest quietly
and I’ll come back after a while.” And
she went out.

Donaldson sighed. He was still safe.
She had told him so. She would not de¬
ceive a sick man. And yet—wouldn’t
she? He remembered reading some¬
where that patients were always told
they had not talked, lest the knowledge
excite them and hinder their recovery.

. That was why she had said it They
wanted him to get well, so they could
put the chains on him. Hadn’t she hesi¬
tated a bit before she answered $ He
had thought she looked at him a bit
suspiciously. Now he was sure of it. And
that was why. They didn’t want him
to know they knew. They wanted to be
sure they’d get him.

Just then Donaldson's thoughts were
interrupted by a noise on the street.
Some vehicle clattering over the pave¬
ment and the sound of a bell. The door
was standing slightly ajar. Two nurses
were passing in the hall, and Donald¬
son’s straining ear caught their voices:

“What is all the noise about?” asked

“I don’t know,” replied the other.
“It sounds like a police patrol.”

(Continued, on page lli)

THE SIREN

A Storiette That Is Different”
By TARLETON COLLIER

W ITH AN ABRUPT jerk, Joe
Wilson, from lying on a cot in
the little tent, lifted himself on
his elbow in an attitude of intent listen¬
ing. There was no sound except the
hum of a sleepy breeze through .the
pines, the sleepier contralto of a mocking
bird, and the purring undertone of rip¬
pling water.

“That’s her!” he whispered. With an
effort he sat erect, and again told him¬
self: “That’s herl”

All at once there came the crackle of
voices without, the sound of thudding
footsteps. Joe flung himself back on the
cot and closed his eyes with furious en¬
ergy as the flap of the tent was lifted
and the engineer and the doctor peered
within.

“He’s asleep,” said the engineer in

“Bml” said the doctor. He was a
wizened little man with spectacles. Then
he let the flap drop, and his voice came
to Joe' brusquely through the canvas.
“Well, we’ll come back. I want to talk
to him. He’s probably .not very sick,
but—by God, man, you’ve got to keep
your men from the water around here,
or you’ll never finish your railroad!"

They were walking away as he spoke,
and to Joe the voice seemed to fade.

“I tell you ... . polluted ....

Then they were gone, the sound of
them swallowed up in the ripple of the
little creek over the rocks. With a start,
Joe again was erect, his eyes furtive,
glancing about the little canvas chamber.
He tiptoed to the flap, and lifted it a
bare inch, peering out upon the receding
figures of the two men as they passed
beneath a water-oak.

With no less caution he crept to the
other end of the tent, and stepped
through the flap into the open. For a
moment he stood irresolute, his eyes
closed, as if he were dizzy.

“Keep away from the water, you
fool I” he whispered.

There was no other sound of life in
the woods now; the breeze had died and
the mocking bird was silent. Only the
prattle of a nearby stream over its

With a stumbling, nervous stride that
was almost a run, Joe Wilson went to¬

ward the sound of the water, and at
last he plunged through a thick clump
of willows and stood stiff, half-crouch¬
ing, at the top of a bank of damp green
moss that sloped steeply to a little
stream with pools like black wells, still
and silenfc Only the silver shallows be¬
tween pools rippled with life.

At the foot of the bank was a shelf
of rock, splotched green with moss,
reaching into the stream barely an inch
above the water. Upon it Joe’s glance
rested, as if held by a power outside
himself. He drew back into the willows;
his sunken eyes closed in his pale face;
then, with a sudden spring, he was over
the bank and perched upon the rock.

Something like a smile lighted his
face, as if with the leap he had settled a
troublesome matter. He Sat down as
easily and comfortably as he might, his
legs doubled, his hands clasped about his
knees; and stared intently into the black
pool at his feet

And then, between a closing and an
opening of his eyes, a woman was there
where he had looked for her.

There was no sense of suddenness
about the apparition; only, when he
closed his eyes against a dizziness, there
was the water and nothing else; when
he opened them, an instant later/she was
standing in the midst of the pool, almost
where he could touch her. And it was
as if she had been there all the while.

The water reached a little above her
ankles. Her legs were bare to the
knees, clothed above that, and her body
as well, in a soft clinging garment of
white that seemed a part of her; white
throat and arms were bare. Her face
was alive with a pleasant smile; her
eyes, of green and gray together, were
alive and pleasant, too.

“You are late,” she said. There was
something of the stream’s bright ripple
in her voice.

Joe Wilson could only smile, in an¬
swer ; then his smile faded and his face
was scornful and somewhat stubborn.

“Yes,” he said, “and I came near not
coming at alL I swore I wouldn’t,”

“But you came,” she said, still smil¬
ing.

“Only to tell you that this is the last
time.”

Her smile, merrier now, was ac¬
companied by a sound that might have
been the gurgle of a little whirlpool in

note of laughter.

"You didn’t mean it, then, that you
love me,” she chided, coming nearer. It
was not by a step that she moved, or by
any perceptible effort The space be¬
tween them all at once was lessened,
nothing else.

Joe had lost his careless air and pos¬
ture. He was on his knees, a fury in
his words.

“I didn’t mean it? You can’t say
that I have become less than a man, I
love you so. You bring me here every¬
day to do as you will, and I would die
if I didn’t come, I love you so. For
you I have broken my word to my
friends back there in camp. And I don’t
know who you are or 'what you are.”

Again that gentle sound that might
have been a sudden swirl of the water,
or her laughter. Then she was nearer,
and her pleasant eyes looked into his,
mqckery in them.

“You don’t know who I ami” she
asked softly. “And yet I am yours.”

The stubborn lines in Joe’s face van¬
ished. A quick throb of blood choked
into a gulp the word he would' have
spoken, and he stretched out his arms.
She was suddenly beyond his reach.

“Yourg,” she said again, and that she
laughed there was no doubt this time.

Joe’s eyes were hungry. Joe leaned
forward upon his stiffened arms, and
stared at her like a wistful dog.

“I don’t know who you are,” he
whispered. “I don’t know who you are.”

“I am whoever you want me to be,”
she said.

“I’ll call you Sadie,” he said.

“Sadie!” Her lids drooped, veiling
her eyes, but their narrow glimmer was
keenly alive.

“Yes, there is a girl—”

Between two words she was dose be¬
fore him at the edge of the rock.

“I am yours,” she said in a'fierce, low
voice. “What do you care for any girl?
I am all woman, and you have me. What
do you care for the world? You have

He felt her breath on his face. There
was warmth and fragrance in it Her

106

WEIRD TALES

white beauty was greater than that of
the dogwood blossoms showering there
through the gloom under a sudden
breeze; and a dizziness struck him, so
that the trees swam before his eyes.

"‘I have you,” he repeated thickly,
rising to his feet.

“And the girl. . . . Sadie!” she
dsked.

“You are Sadie. Only you. X have
forgotten. ...” He put out his arms,
but she was beyond Eos reach again, her
eyes mysterious.

With outstretched arms, he begged her

“I love you,” he said.

For a full breath she looked at him
gravely. Then, “We shall see,” she
said, plunging her hands into the stream.
As she arose, her hands were cupped
and brimming with water. She moved
toward him, smiling.

Terror gathered in Joe’s white face.

“Drink,” she tempted him.

He whispered “No,” and the refusal

There was pain in his voice as he
cried, “Don’t. . . . Sadie! I have
promised. ... the rule. . . .”

It was she whose figure drooped now,
and her face that was moumfuL “But
you have broken the rules before this for

“I came today to say that X would no

“But it is so little I ask. And I—am

He pleaded: “Don’tl”

With sudden abandon, she flung her¬
self against him, and for the first time
his arms closed about her. She yielded
to his fierce embrace, her head against
his breast

“You do not love me,” she whispered.

“Sadie. . . 1" His arms tightened
with his cry, and a red hoist blinded him
as he felt her warm, vital body closer

“Drink,” he shouted it

she was beside him upon the rock, hei
wet feet glistening silver upon its green¬
ish-brown surface. Her eyes held fast
his wide, frightened stare.

“Why!” she asked him, when she

warmth and fragrance of her person.

He answered her steadily:

“I will not, that’s why. I must not.
I have told you I must not, every day
that I have conic here, and yet X have
always drunk this water. It has made
me less than a man. It has made me

Once more her eyes were grave. “You
must not!” she asked. Her voice might
have been that of the purring shallows.
There was no escaping her gaze, and be¬
fore it his eyes wavered and shifted.
His shoulders drooped.

“You will not!” the purring voice
went on. “Not for me, and you say
you love me! It is So little that I ask.”

She lifted her face and looked at him.

“You will!” she asked, smiling.

“No,” he said, almost with a moan.

She kissed him. “To drink, only to
drink,” she said softly. “It is so little.
I have given you myself. . . . isn’t that
something!”

With one arm she clung to him as
tightly as he held her; the other arm
was free, and with her hand she stroked
his face. Her kisses were hot upon his
lips. His eyes were closed, and he
swaypd with a dizziness that was
mightier than, any other he had known.

“Only to drink,” she said. “Do you
not care for me, and I have given you
myself! What are those men in the camp
to you, they and their rules! You will
not drink. ... yet I give you. . . .

Her lips met his in an eternity of
giving and taking.

“No!” he said again, but his voice
quivered and broke, with the plain
message of surrender.

With a little cry, she knelt at the edge
of the pool, her arms still about him so
that he was forced to kneel with her.
She plunged her hands into the water,

and lifted them to him with their silver
freight.

With an eager, moaning sound, he
drank the cool water; and as he did so
the red mist before his eyes thickened,
and his ears roared with the thunder of
blood within. To drink became then his
passion, and he cupped his ow n hands,
filled them with water, and drank.

For a moment the mist cleared and
tho roaring ceased, and he saw that he
was-alone on the rock.

“Sadie!” he called.

The answering sound might have been
onty the prattle of the stream, or it
might have been low laughter.

The thought came to him that per¬
haps she had fled to the bank, and with
prodigious labor he clambered up the
tiny slope. She was not there. He
parted the soft-flowing curtain of the
willows, and though the fronds were so
light a bird might have flown through
them, he gasped with the effort'it cost

Staggering into the sunlight beyond
the fringe of trees, he found that she was
not there, either. He tried to run, but
only stumbled, lifting himself painfully
to stagger onward. Then the mist of
his delirium closed upon him, and the
blood at . his ear drums pounded and a
tumult came out of earth and sky to
overwhelm him.

later. The former,
wizened, spectacled little man, bent over
him and studied him with eyes that
seemed to see everything. He studied
the young fellow’s pulse, loosened his
shirt, stared into the pupils of his eyes.
At last he turned to the other, frowning.

“Fever, and maybe t!

Men, Lost at Sea, Live Through Week of Horror

A HARROWING adventure that probably will never leave Harry Matthews—had only a small supply of water and a
their minds befell two fishermen of Freeport, L. I, who few raw potatoes. On this they lived for the first two days,
passed a week in the open sea in a small motor boat, without Then Matthews lost control of himself, drank sea water and
water or provisions. Caught in a blizzard off the Long Island delirious. Ratdng in delirium, he urged Smith to

coast something went wromt with their enmnass and thev SpUt a bottle of lodlne ™ a suicide pact. Their boat began to
. ' . . f . . ... 00 p “ s leak, and they ripped the lining from their overcoats to calk

headed out to sea, where they dnfted for nearly a week be- the seams. Finally, after a number of ships had passed with,
fore the, schooner, Catherine M„ saw their signals of distress out seeing them, they were rescued, more dead than alive,
and picked them up. The two men—Capt. Bergen Smith and by the schooner.

A Night of Horror in the Mortuary

THE MADMAN

By HERBERT HIPWELL

P ETER STUBBS has snow-white
hair, and he is only twenty-eight.
He mutters to himself as he pur¬
sues his lowly task of sweeping the
streets in our little university town.
Children gibe at him and goad him to
rage and tears.

Peter once had raven black hair and
was as fine and strong a young fellow as
ever led the town forces in their frequent
battles with our students. That was be¬
fore the one night he spent as caretaker
of our medical school. Only two of us
know the real story of that night and
why Peter was taken from the building
next morning, a gibbering and white-
haired idiot.

We have remained silent for various
and selfish reasons, but I can no longer
keep to myself the story of that awful

Our medical college is a lonely, ram¬
shackle old building. The town has
grown away from it It is surrounded
by musty old junk yards and infre¬
quently used railway sidings, and it is
miles from the fine old group of build¬
ings which form the rest of the uni-

There has always been difficulty in
getting a suitable caretaker for it None
of the many engaged could be relied on
to come early enough to get the fires
going properly and to keep the walks
clear of snow. Our new dean, Dr.
Towney, thought he had solved the prob¬
lem by deciding to have a caretaker live
permanently on the premises.

Peter Stubbs, on learning of this, ap¬
plied for the post and had no difficulty
in obtaining it The dean showed him
around the building and explained the
duties required of him. A more imagin¬
ative man might have been a little
chilled by the gaunt skeletons arranged
in the cases of some of our classrooms.
Certainly he would not have been
pleased with the sleeping quarters
picked out for him. The only room
available was a elosetlike place directly
connected with our mortuary.

Frequently, bodies would be thero
overnight, awaiting the purposes of the
college. Most persons would not wel¬

come these as night-time neighbors, but
Peter scoffed and said he would as soon
sleep there as in a brightly lighted hotel.

Chic Channing and I heard his foolish
boast, and Chic and I had old scores to
pay with Peter.

His sturdy fist had left a blue circle
around my eye for a week, and Chic was
minus a tooth as a result of a hot en¬
counter between Peter’s followers and us

. Chic jumped at this brilliant opening
for reprisal.

“Are you game for a little ghost-walk¬
ing?” he whispered to me, as Peter and
the Dean passed to another part of the
building.

I asked for details.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime if we
have the nerve,” he declared. “Let’s
sneak-back into the building tonight
crawl on to a couple of slabs in the
mortuary and cover ourselves with
sheets. We’ll look enough like corpses
to fool Peter if he looks in. Then, when
Peter goes to bed and it gets good and
lonely, we can come to life with a few
gentle moans, get Peter aroused, and
then do a little ghost dance for his
benefit. After we have him frightened
stiff we can take off the sheets and give
him the laugh. The story will get
around quick enough, and poor old
Peter won’t be troubling us freshies any

I could scent trouble in the wild
scheme, and I hastily began to offer

“Peter knows there aren’t any bodies
in there now,” I said.

“That’s all right,” Chic replied. “I
heard the dean tell him that a couple
might arrive late today. In fact, I know
there will be one there for certain. One
of the inmates at the government hos¬
pital for the insane died today, a poor
beggar who was so wild they had to keep
him locked up tight all the time. He
had no friends, so the body is to come
here and the undertaker has already
gone for it”

I was still unconvinced, but I liad no
plausible excuses. I felt my eye, which
was still sore from Peter’s bruising, and
I assented to the crazy plan.

/""iHIC was right about the body. The

1 undertaker’s car drew up to the
college just as we were leaving. We were
the last students to go, and the dean
was the only other person there.

He asked our aid in bringing the body
to the mortuary, and we laid it on a
cold marble slab. Peter arrived from
supper, to begin his first night’s stay,
just as the dean and we were leaving..

True to my promise, I met Chic near
the college about ten o’clock and we pre¬
pared to carry out our plan. My cour¬
age was oozing already. One of those
wan yellow moons was the only light
around the dreary building, and every
rustle of a leaf or a disturbed pebble
began to send shivers up my spine. But
I eouldn’t turn back.

Silently, we pried open one of the
loosely locked basement windows. Then
we crept up dark stairs and through the
classrooms, where I imagined I could
see the skeletons standing out like white
patches in the murky darkness.

We reached the mortuary room and
groped our way in. I almost cried out
as my hand suddenly came in contact
with the dead maniac, but I recovered
myself. Chic groped in the corners
until he found two immense white sheets.

We climbed upon adjacent slabs, and
stretched out on our backs and pulled the
coverings over us. I managed to keep
a small corner raised so that I had a
partial view of the room as my eyes
grew accustomed to the darkness.

The stillness grew intense. We heard
the long, dreary hoot of a freight en¬
gine. I shivered involuntarily and
thought of the real corpse a few feet

Footsteps echoed in the building.
Peter was making a round of inspection
before retiring. He switched on the
lights in the mortuary and gave a little
whistle of surprise at the three still,
white figures lying there.

Then he began to whistle again, a little
tremulously. Evidently he was not feel¬
ing as bold as when he accepted his post
He went to his little room, but was soon
back again.

In his hand he held a small coil of-
rqpe, apparently a clothesline. He un-

108

WEIRD TALES

wound it, and then, very gingerly, he
approached the slab on which I lay.

I felt a light blow as one end of the
rope fell across me. Peter was going
to take no chances on midnight ghosts.
He was going io tie tts ad firmly to the
dabs!

Whistling to keep up his courage, he
proceeded with his task. In a few
minutes I was firmly bound. I could
not have moved if I dared.

Then he cut away the remaining piece
of rope and proceeded to truss up Chie
in the same way. He had to struggle to
make the two ends of the cord meet.

There wae none left for the real
corpse, and, though he hunted diligently
in all parts of the room, he oould find

He surveyed the two of us, bouud
firmly to the slabs, and evidently felt
reassured. He decided to take a chance
on the third body remaining still and
retired to his room, closing the door and
leaving us alone in the creepy, moonlit
mortuary.

How I cursed Chic as I lay there un¬
able to move, listening to the gradually
deepening breathing of Peter as ho
dropped into a sound sleep. What if
he should leave us bound until the pro¬
fessors arrived in the morning? What
a fine row there would be!

These, and other unpleasant thoughts
running through my mind, were sudden¬
ly checked by a slight sound which
turned me cold from head to foot. Hor¬
rified, I gazed through the small chink in
my covering I could not believe my
eyes.

The corpse of the maniac had moved!

c-pHERE came a faint rustle of his
^ covering shroud, and the body
moved again ever so slightly. I wanted
to shriek in terror, but I was paralyzed.

The shroud moved again, this time
more noticeably. My scalp tightened,
and I could feel the gooseflesh rising all

Then, with one sudden motion, the
maniac sat bolt upright and threw the
shroud from him.

He was clothed only in a long, hos¬
pital nightgown. His thin hair stood up
in tangled wisps, and his eyes blazed like
those of a cat in a dark room.

Slowly he surveyed his surroundings,
and then burst into the most hideous
laughter I have ever heard. His big,
yellow teeth seemed like the fangs of a
wild animal. I could imagine them rend¬
ing my flesh.

The echo of his hideous mirth had
hardly died away when Peter burst from
his room, clad in his night clothes. His
knees almost gave way as he took in the
dreadful scene. Horror was apparent
in every line of his body, and I had an
inexplicable desire to laugh. But by a
supreme effort I fought off this hysteria.

Quite calmly the madman swung his
legs down from the slab and Sat there
on its edge, transfixing poor Peter with
his terrible' gaze He chuckled.

Peter commenced to back toward his
room. In an instant the madman was

Then commenced a wild chase around
the room, of which I could only catch
fleeting glimpses as they passed on one
side of my slab. Once the maniac rested
bony hands on my body as he prepared
for a new rush at Peter, whom I could
hear breathing near by.

Bound hand and foot, Chie and I were
unable to make a move, even if terror
had not prevented us.

Untiringly, cunningly, the madman
pursued his prey. Peter dodged and
squirmed in terror. Perspiration poured
from his face. But his efforts were
futile. He was penned in a comer, at
last, where a door led directly to a stair¬
way in the Corridor.

Step by step, the madman approached
him, his long fingers outstretched like
talons, and a low, gleeful laugh came
from his lips. Peter backed desperately
away from him, as though he hoped to
press through the great oaken door. The
maniac’s fingers were almost at his
throat, when the door swung back sud¬
denly and Peter tumbled from the room,
his body bumping and thudding on the
stairs outside.

Startled by the sudden disappearance
of his victim, the madman halted a
moment. The door automatically swung
shut again, firmly this time. Apparent¬
ly, it had not been tightly closed before.

The insane creature flung himself at
it It repelled him. He shrieked and
tore at it, but to no avail, and he finally

His eyes, now wilder than ever, swept
the room. They rested on our bound
figures. Swiftly, he passed over to
where I lay. The rope puzzled him, and

Suddenly he grasped it and snapped
it as though it had been thread. I was
free, but' I did not move. I waited for
him to seize me, but his footsteps
shuffled away. He was beside Chie now.
I heard the rope which bound him snap.

In desperation, I rolled from the slab
and rose trembling to my feet. The
noise attracted the crazed being. He
tnyned and faced mo.

His features were distorted, into a
horrible grin. His sharp, cruel teeth
gnashed as if in expectation of a bloody
feast. He leaped at me, clearing the
slab, on which I had lain, at ouo bound.

I was too weak to dodge, but I tried
grimly to clinch with him, as I had seen
groggy boxers do when they were spar¬
ring for time. I was in his arms. His
eyes blazed not a foot from mine. Foam
flecked his mouth. His weight pressed
against me. It grew heavier and

Then my overwrought nerves gave
way, and I became unconscious.

VV/HEN I awoke I was outside in the
’ ' cool night air. Chic was bathing
my brow with muddy water from a road¬
side pool. The madman had collapsed at
the same moment as I had. In a daze,
Chic had laid him again on the slab and
had dragged me from the building.

Poor Peter we forgot, until he was
found the next morning, haggard, white-
haired and unable to utter an intelligible

Too vivid an imagination, wrought
into a frenzy by the uncanny surround-,
ings, was the way the doctors diagnosed
his strange case. Chic and I were too
dazed to shatter the theory.

As for the madman, he had really
died, after the short spell of suspended
animation and temporary revival. I
know this because his gaunt skeleton
was one of the principal decorations at
our graduation dance.

But, eyen with this assurance, I some¬
times wake at night in a cold sweat, and
feel for the butt of the revolver under
my pillow.

Arrest Woman Accused of Witchcraft

P OPULAR rumors of a sorceress in the Logan Square over her patients, and applied an evil-smelling salve,
district of Ohioago led to the arrest of Mrs. Emily the composition of which is not known. Each visit cost
Elbert for practising medicine without a license. The the patient two dollars, and Mrs. Elhert is said to have
-woman styled herself a spiritualist and claimed the ability made very good money until the police interfered with
to heal any disease. Bho would make mysterious passes her career.

hmm

An Electrocution, Vividly Described
By An Eye Witness

THE CHAIR

By DR. HARRY E. MERENESS

Former Physician at Sing Sing Prison

r'vR. HARRY E. MERENESS, who wrote this realistic description of an electrocution, was attending physician
at Sing Sing Prison for six years, and during that period he attended, in his official capacity, sixty-seven execu¬
tions in the Electric Chair—a record that has never been equaled. Among the many noted executions he witnessed
were those of Lieut. Beoker of the New York Police Department and the four gunmen in the Rosenthal case. Prior
to their death, he attended the prisoners in the condemned cells.

“The average prisoner, approaching the moment of execution,” says Dr. Mereness, "is in a mental base or wild
delirium produced by the fear of death. In two instances, however, this was lacking. Both men, after being strapped
in the chair, said: ‘Good-by, Dool’ ”

'T'HE MINUTE HAND on my watch
-*■ indicates 5:44 a. m. I am standing
in a direct line with the chair.

My gaze is directed to the left side of
the room and down a short, narrow,
heavily-walled corridor that forms the
communication between thq condemned
cells and the execution chamber. There
are a number of guards standing quietly
about, and on my right, back of a rope
stretched across the room, sit the wit

There is a tension in the very air of
the chamber. Absolute quiet prevails.
A few seconds pass, eternally long they

Then comes a sound—a muffled
“Good-by, alL” The sound reaches the
ears of the witnesses, and involuntarily
they straighten up on their stools; there
is some scuffling of feet, and one witness,
possibly a trifle more,nervous than the
rest, clears his throat. Everyone is now
keenly alert.

I hear the chant of the priest—the
response of the condemned man—the
low, quavering and broken response,
“Have mercy on me.”

The little procession now enters the
corridor. I see the condemned man—
stocking-footed, and with his right trou-
; flapping, grimly ludicrous, for it
len slit up to the knee in order to
ate the application of the leg elec-
He is between the deputy warden
iis assistant, each supporting an
is they slowly enter the death

room. His expression haunts one. You
feel that it is both all-seeing and unsee¬
ing. The fear of death—a definite emo¬
tion—is here portrayed in a fashion that
but few have beheld. There is utter
finality in that look;

His eyes rest upon you. You feel that
he sees you, but that you are simply one
of the images in the general make-up of
the last picture that is conveyed to his
brain. There is no recognition in the
glance—just a vague, hopeless and ap¬
parently vacant stare, but one which you
feel discerns the sharp outlines of the
persons and objects in the room, without
recognizing features or details.

To me, that quick survey of his sur¬
roundings, that final glance of the un-
fortunate being on the very threshold of
his meeting with his God, is the most
harrowing of all the grewsome details
connected with the administration of
man-made Law’s decree.

My watch indicates 5:45 a. m. The
condemned man is seated in the Chair.
The guards work quickly, two at either
side and one at the head of the Chair.
The arm straps are buckled fast, the leg
straps next, then the face strap, which
has an opening for the chin, and the up¬
per part of which mercifully blindfolds
the eyes.

The cap, a soft, pliable thing made of
a fine copper mesh and lined with
sponge, which has been moistened in
salt water, is placed upon the head and
moulded to fit its contour. To a bind¬
ing-post on the cap is adjusted the
heavy wire that conveys the terrific cur-'
rent from the dynamo in a distant part

Rare Music Disappears Mysteriously

The Cauldron

True Adventures of Terror
PRESTON LANGLEY HICKEY

THE EYRIE

a

HE TIME has come to talk of cats and Chinamen,
and rattlesnakes and skulls—and why it is these
things abound in yarns for WEIRD TALES.
Particularly cats and Chinamen. Believe it or
not, every second manuscript we open, (and
that’s placing the average rather low) is concerned with one
or the other, or both, of these.

Why is this? Is it because a-eat and a Chinaman-suggest
the mysticism of the Orient, and thus seem excellent
“props” for weird fiction? Or is' it merely because both
mind their own business, imperturbably pursue their des¬
tinies, and thereby create the impression that there’s some
deep-laid mystery here? We ask you that.

Whatever the reason, it’s an odd and curious fact that
when an author sets out to tell a weird tale his mind turns,
as if instinctively, to cats and Chinamen. And then, for good
measure, he not infrequently throws in a few rattlesnakes
and a skull or two.

Sometimes the result is interesting. And sometimes it is
awful! And again, sometimes, it is a ludicrous thing, un¬
consciously funny.

We have no prejudices against Chinese characters in fic-
, tion, and we have none whatover against cats. For that
matter, we haven’t any prejudices of any sort. We’ve pub¬
lished a good many stories about Chinese, and quite a large
number about cats, and not a few that featured skulls and
rattlesnakes.- You’ll find some in this June issue.

But we didn’t accept those stories because of the afore¬
mentioned features, nor yet in spite of them. We accepted
them solely because they were GOOD stories. We observe
one rule, and one rule only, in selecting stories for your
entertainment. We think we’ve mentioned this before, but
we’ll say again that our only requirement is: The thing
MUST be interesting!

If a story interests us it will likewise interest others, or
so we believe. And if it doesn’t—Thumbs Down! And it
doesn’t matter a good gosh darn whether the hero, or villain,
has yellow skin and oblique eyelids, or flaxen hair and sky-
blue eyes, or whether or not a green-eyed eat howls atop a
grinning skull. The story’s the thing I

All the same, though, we would like to know why all these
cats and Chinamen are slinking mysteriously through our
manuscripts. We read eight before breakfast this morning
(chosen quite at random), and we hope to die if there wasn’t
a Chinaman in every last one of them!

and still the letters pour in from delighted readers—
plenty of them! Manifestly, it is quite impossible to
print more than a fractional part of them here, but we can’t
refrain from quoting at least three that concern Paul Suter’s
story, “Beyond the Door,” which appeared in the April
WEIRD TALES.

We take it you remember this story and will therefore be
interested in these comments. The first letter comes from
R. E. Lambert, secretary of the Washington Square College
-of New York University, New York, and reads as follows:

"Dear sir: Just as Woodrow Wilson used to say during
his most trying days in the presidency that when he wanted

to get his mind completely off his work he would turn to a
detective story, so I turn for my own relaxation to the horror

"X suppose it would take exhaustive questioning by a
psychoanalyst to discover why this soft of literature appeals
to me, but the fact is it does so appeal. While there are
hundreds of others like me in this respect, I doubt whether
the number is great enough to make such a venture as yours
a considerable financial sucoess—therefore, the more praise
to you for your coinage in launching WEIRD TALES.

“What particularly impelled me to write this letter is the
story in the current issue, entitled 'Beyond the Door.' One
reason why I single this one from such a congeries of thril¬
ling, weird tales is that, with all its mystery and suggestion
of the supernatural, the denouement and everything that
leads up to it are discovered at the end to be logically and
physioally ‘possible.’ So often, in mystery stories, we are
called upon to accept much that simply is not naturally pos¬
sible, and we turn from them, duly horrified, but unper¬
suaded that the tale is more than a figment of a morbid
imagination.

“From the standpoint of construction, I have read few
stories that so faithfully adhere to the trinity of short story
tradition—unity, coherence and mass. Especially on the
score of unity, the most important of the trinity, do I find
this tale worthy of much praise. Not a situation, not a par¬
agraph, nor a sentenoe, but which has a direct bearing on the
unfoldment of the plot. And I find no single instance where
the choice of words seems to have resulted from a straining
for effect. Of how many stories, whether horrifio or any
other kind, can this truly be said?

“Then, too, very few tales are really brought home to the
reader’s own intimate experience of life. Yet here we
shudder at the terrors created by a guilty conscience, and
approve, while we shudder, of the terrible punishment that
is meted out for the wrong-doing. How very real it thus
becomes to all of us!

“Finally, the author dares to do, and admirably succeeds
in doing, what so few writers of fiction attempt—and mostly
bungle when they do attempt. I refer to the linking of his
story in the closing paragraphs to man’s inevitable, age-old
uncertainty as to what is to come in the hereafter. This
alone elevates ‘Beyond the Door’ out of the ordinary run
of fiction.

“Here’s wishing you a well-merited success!”

The next one was written by Rev. Andrew Wallace Mac-
Neill, minister of the Bethlehem Congregational Church,
International Falls, Minnesota:

“Gentlemen: I have read with much interest and pleasure
the April number of your new magazine, which I believe
will make a distinctive and acceptable place for itself in
magazine literature.

“I am particularly interested in the story by a new writer,
Paul Suter, ‘Beyond the Door’ proving exceptionally ap¬
pealing and gripping. I hope you will publish more work by
this writer, as I believe if he maintains the standard of this
story your readers will make quite a popular response.”

THE EYRIE

And the third letter, which arrived in the same mail that
brought the first two, eame from the author himself:

“Dear Mr. Baird: I take it that even editors enjoy an
occasional pat on the back, in the midst of the many black
looks they receive, so I am presuming to express my appre¬
ciation of the way in which you printed my story, ‘Beyond
the Door,’ in your April issue.

“There is a story which might easily have been rendered
monotonous by unintelligent press work—because the effect
of slowly undermining horror, which I had to attain, is akin
to monotony. You avoided that pitfall by change of type—
and (this to me is the remarkable riling) I can tell by the
way in which you ran in those changes that you got abso¬
lutely every subtle suggestion which I concealed in that
story—and 1 buried quite a lot of them there. You must
havfe read my manuscript with a microscope. May 1 take the
liberty of expressing my opinion that as an editor you are
emphatically THERE?

“Cordially yours,

“J. Paul Suter.”

We almost dislike to print this last one—it’s too much
like pinning a medal on our coat—but we can plead, in ex¬
tenuation, that the excellence of Mr. Suter’s story was mit
due to our editing, or printer's directions, or anything of
the sort, but solely to his splendid craftsmanship. He wrote
a good story and wc published it, and no amount of editing
could have made it any better.

If you failed to read “Beyond the Door” we earnestly
recommend that you do so now. In either case, don’t miss'
his next story: It is called “Tlic Ouard of Honor,” and is
fully as “creepy” as the first—and you will find it in the
next issue of WEIRD TALES.

Suter is a coming writer. No doubt of that And since

tiling else,” wc hope to publish the best of his work.

YT/’E’VE ransacked a bale of Letters to the Editor in an
” effort to find some not sweet with praise! and we’ve
found only two, and here they are:

“Dear sir: I have purchased two copies of your new
magazine,, have read the stories, and also the praise liberally
supplied by friends and readers. I think it is time to offer
a few words of criticism, since .applause and praise of this
kind does not mean much. The public lauds any new effort;
it applauds anything, even moving pictures.

“The stories you have printed so far can be grouped under
three general headings: Ghost Stories, Snake Stories, In¬
sanity Stories. In your first issue you printed a story called
‘Ooze’ which approached the type of semi-scientific stories
that are liked intensely by all those who are fond of the
unusual, and if you would publish at least one story of this
type in each issue of your magazine I am sure that your
efforts would register larger sales.”—Conrad A. Brandt, 563
West 150th Street New York City.

“My dear Mr. Baird: At last it arrived—that second
volume. If you play that slow trick again on us we shall
send one of our aviators to Chicago to get the so strenuously
desired copy.

“Allow me to tell you whioh story in the April number
I liked best and which I hate best. ‘The Scar’ by Dr. Carl
Ramus was a gem. Plausible, scientifically correct, well
told, no words wasted. ‘The Whispering Thing’ is the acme
of foolish, silly, nonsensical, high-school girl, bucket-of-
blood story. If you waste more paper on such rotten stuff

118

I predict failure in caps.”—Adeline Jtlgol, Covina Apart¬
ments, Los Angeles.

Luckily, though, not all our readers disrelished “Tho
Whispering Thing.” For instance:

“Dear sir: Having recently read the second issue of
WEIRD TALES, I cannot refrain from expressing my con¬
gratulations on your rare fiction taste as an editor. I enjoyed
reading the novelette by Harold Ward, but the authors
who wrote ‘The Whispering Thing’ have an imagination
which is extraordinary. I. happened to read this story late
at night, and I began to look for ‘spooks. ’ Talk about horror
and terror combined! This story is nothing short of a

“I sincerely believe that you have an innate tendency
for selecting stories of this type, and if you keep this class
of stories running you will, without the least doubt, be a
success.”—0. R. Hamilton, 4002 Avenue F, Austin, Texas.

With regard to the poetic effusion that follows, we're not
sure whether “Witch Hazel” is spoofing us or having a
spasm of ecstasy. At any rulo, we’ll take a chance and
print the thing just as she wrote it:

“Dear Editor: No words can express how much I enjoy
your magazine. Here is whit I think of it:

“Oh, what is more pleasure than a show,

A party, bon bons, or even a beau?

Well, here's the answer (all readers take heed);
WEIRD TALES and a nioe quiet place to read!

“It’s my favorite magazine, and I can hardly wait for
each number to come out. I think it is the most wonderful
magazine in the world, as it is so different, so extremely
interesting—but there! I can never say enough in its praise.
As my little verse says, ‘I like it better than anything,' and
I’ve often said I wished some editor would publish just such
a magazine, and thank you, Mr. Baird (you Good Fairy) for
doing so. I can hardly wait for the next issue. Thank you
for filling a long felt need, and good luok!”—Witch Hazel
of St. Louis.

XXfE’VE scores of flattering letters here, but we’re not

' ' going to print them all [prolonged and loud applause),
because, for one thing, wc haven’t space, and, for another,
we have a sneaking suspicion that our delight in reading
them is not always shared by' others. So we’ll mn only five

“My dear Mr. Baird: I don’t mind admitting that I was
a little leary about WEIRD TALES when I first heard of it.
The fact of the matter is, I picked up the first copy with
a good deal of prejudice against it. The reason for this pre¬
judice is clear enough. I have always had a healthy respect
for mystery stories and believe they are the hardest kind to
write—and to judge.

“For this reason I am moved to write you and tell you
how very much my view point has changed. You have not
only sold me, you have enthused me. There is no question
about your future. I’ve talked to many friends who have
read the March issue, and I know.”—A. M. Oliver, 148 North
Portage Path, Akron, Ohio.

“Dear sir: I asked my newsdealer for something different
in the magazine line today, and he handed me a copy of the
April WEIRD TALES. I’ve read many so-called mystery
stories, but none can compare with those I found in your
magazine. It is something altogether new and most fasc¬
inating. I especially enjoyed- ‘The Snake Fiend’ and ‘The

WEIRD TALES

Conquering Will’ Those sort of stories appeal to me. For
anybody that is looking for something different I heartily
advise your magazine. May you prosper 1”—P. W. Burrows,
Kearney, Nebraska.

“Dear sirs: . . . I was in the business section of Des
Moines one evening recently when my eye fell upon a copy
of WEIRD TALES. Struck by its unusual appearance, I
bought one. When I arrived home it was rather early, and X
sat down to read. Well, I had not finished a half dozen pages
before I knew I had found a marvelous book—in fact, my
ideal magazine. Before I had finished the second story I was
as much in its power as our detective friend seems to be in
the power of‘The Whispering Thing.’. . . .

“But here I have been taking up your time with praise of
the Wonder Magazine and haven’t spoken of the most vital
thing—the thing whioh makes such mighty entertainment
possible. Please find enclosed three dollars for which please
enter me for a year’s subscription to WEIRD TALES, be¬
ginning with your third issue.”—J. 0. Wolquist, 1544 Wal¬
ker Street, Des Moines, Iowa.

“Dear Mr. Baird: Three weeks ago I bought a copy of
WEIRD TALES, and I am shaking yet, as yon probably can
tell by my scribbling! . . . The first story I read was
‘The Thing of a Thousand Shapes.’ It happened to be eleven-
thirty when I finished the first installment, and I went to bed
quaking in every limb, firmly resolved never to lay eyes on
another copy of WEIRD TALES.

“A few days later I passed a news stand. There, glaring
into my eyes, was the interesting cover of WEIRD TALES.

I was about to turn away when curiosity whispered in my
ear, ‘What happened to Billy?'

“Being a woman, curiosity, of course, won, and home I
went, with the copy tucked snugly under my arm . . .
And now I look on WEIRD TALES as a friend indeed. I
daren't let my little brother get the magazine before he does
his lessons, or they would never get done, while such an ab¬
sorbing magazine is around."—Miss Marguerite Nicholson,
636 North Frazier Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

“Dear Mr. Baird: Congratulations! Your new magazine
is simply splendid. I have often wondered just when I
would be able to go to a news stand and buy a real maga¬
zine. Now all my worry has ceased . . . There is one
trouble with it, and that is that it doesn’t come weekly or
semi-monthly.”—M. Nawroekj, 854 Robinson Avenue, Mil¬
waukee, Wisconsin.

“Dear Mr. Baird: ... I have thoroughly enjoyed
DETECTIVE TALES, every issue of it, and believe that
there is more good reading matter in it than in any other
magazine published, and when I saw a copy of WEIRD
TALES at the news stand, with your name on it, I could not
resist getting it. And it has lived up to my expectations.
I could not put the magazine down until I had finished every
story, and that was about three o’clock the next morning.”
. . . —Mary Sharon, 1912 Main Street, Galena, Kansas.

And it’s now three o’clock hi the afternoon, and the
printer is calling for copy; and—

That’ll be alL THE EDITOR.

THE ESCAPE

(Continued from page 104,1

They were after him! What should
he dot He threw back the bedclothes.
His mind was working like lightning.
They would never get him. He slipped
to the floor. How he got to the door he
never knew. Fear lends strength. He
dosed it and stumbled back across the
floor, half-falling against the bed.

He knew what he was going to do.
He pulled up the bed-clothes from the
foot of the bed with feverish haste. The
sheet—that was what he wanted! He
ripped open the hem a few inches, turn¬
ing it back so that he could get the raw
edge of the material. Then he tore off
a strip the whole length of the sheet. He
laughed excitedly. They’d never get
him!

By this time, the. cut in- his side had
reopened, but he did not notice it. He
knew nothing but his one mad purpose.
His senses seemed to have deserted him.
It was as though he were in a dream.
He felt as though his mind were stand¬
ing off, directing his body to do these
things, and as though he were putting
a senseless aud inanimate other half of
him through certain prescribed motions.

He tied one end of the strip, to one
of the iron bed-posts, then he climbed
into bed and lay down. He circled the

other end of the strip around his neck.
The head of the b®d was looped between
the posts with scrolls of white iron-work.
He lifted his knees and pushed with his
feet' till his head was through one of
these openings, hanging down in the
space between the bed and. the Comer
of the room. His neck was now in a
straight line between the bed-posts, bent
backward, and as he breathed, he emit¬
ted from his lips little hoarse noises that
seemed to struggle out protestingly from
his strained throat. He knew that he
could not strangle himself to death, for
as soon as unconsciousness came, he
would relax his hold. If he could tie the
other end! That was sure and safe.

The blood rushed to his head. He
pulled the knot tight, very tight, and
gasped. He felt as though he were
drowning. His temples throbbed, and
his ears beat as though the waves were
knocking against the inside of his head,
now roaring, now singing with queer,
unearthly hum. He relaxed his hand,
and the noose slackened.

There! That was not so bad, but the
blood rushed back from his brain, and
the waves swirled around him now and
made him fearfully dizzy. He felt like
a little brig, tossed in the valley of a

tempestuous sea, beaten, dazed, apa-

He recovered somewhat. The police!
They must be on their way up! The
waves were calling. Their restless surg¬
ing hammered upon his brain, dulling
its sensibility. There was peace beneath
those waves. Unchanging peace!

But he must hurry. A cloud rose be¬
fore his eyes, grey and inviting. He
seemed to forget. What was he going to
do? Where was that peace? Peace,
something he had not known for aeons,
aching, endless aeons of time. Where
was it? Ah, yes I Beneath the waves,
those heaving, restless, insistent waves

“I’m coming,” he murmured thickly.
His tongue seemed swollen. There was
need of haste. He shook himself to clear
his mind for the final effort Then he
pulled the noose tight with all his
strength, and tied it quickly to the right-
hand bedpost.

The waves seemed to open and ho was
going down. He saw a faint, opalescent
light beneath hint. There was something
precious down there. It was peace.

“I’m coming,” he muttered, strug¬
gling, his arms stretched out toward it
“I’m coming!”

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THE INVISIBLE TERROR

(Continued from page 102,1
When they warily approached the
edge of the pool, however, the two men
conld find no sign of the thing they had
shot at, beyond a number of footprints
in the soft ground, and, in one spot, very
close to the water, a large splotch of
crimson, which made the little sheriff
chuckle exultantly.

“He was hard hit, and he’s sunk in
the pool,” he declared positively, “sunk
in water that no man has ever yet found
the bottom of—a fitting end for such a
beast, although I won’t deny that I
should have enjoyed a close look at the
body. But it’s too late now, and, at
any rate, the brnte is dead. Let’s be
getting home, Horace.”

Seek Solution To Sahara
Desert Mystery

A N attempt is being made this Spring
to penetrate the heart of the great
Sahara Desert and solve the mystery
that envelops the savage Tribe of
Tauregx, a band of wild Arabs who
have never recognized any civilized au¬
thority. , Both men and women members
of the tribe always keep their faces
veiled in black. The region where they
dwell is known as the Land of Terror.
The Chicago Tribune organized the ex¬
pedition, which is making the 2,000-
mile journey across the hot sands on

Light is the fastest-moving thing in
the universe. It travels at the speed of
186,326 miles a second. This tremen¬
dous speed would oany a person
around the earth seven times in one
second!

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THE MOON TERROR

(Continued from page SO)

As he did so he tamed his eyes upon
me—and the blood seemed to freeze with¬
in my veins! Not to my dying day shall
I forget the awful power of that look!

But only for a second did this last—
for I had already drawn another grenade
and was in the act of hurling it. This
time the bomb fell directly at the feet of
the high priest and burst with deadly

Even while the old man’s eyes were
boring through me with that unearthly
fury, Kwo-Sung-tao was blown to frag-

An instant later the sun vanished, and
a ghostly semi-night fell like a thunder-
bolt!

TT WAS several days later when Dr.
-*• Ferdinand Gresham, Ensign Hallock
and myself returned to the Mare Island
navy yard at San Franciseo.

And there, for the fltst time, we
learned that the world remained intact
and was out of danger.

When we had ascertained that we
three were the only survivors of our ex¬
pedition, we' had started wandering over
the mountains through the semi-darkness
until we found the destroyer. Unable
to navigate the vessel, we had taken the
hydroplane, which Hallock knew how to
handle, and started south. Engine
trouble had prolonged our trip.

Back from the grave, as it seemed, we
listened with tremendous elation to the
story of the wounded planet’s eonvales-

That last terrible upheaval,, just be¬
fore the destruction of . the sorcerers’
power plant, had seemed for a time to be
the actual beginning of the end. But,
instead, it had proved to be the climax-
after which the earthquakes had begun
rapidly to die out. Scientists now de¬
clared that before long the earth would
regain its normal stability.

With our return, the story of the
Seuen-H’sin was given to the public. So
universal became the horror with which
that sect was regarded that an interna¬
tional expedition proceeded into China
and dealt vigorously with the sorcerers.

The tremendous changes that had been
wrought in the surface of the planet
presently lost their novelty.

And New York and other cities that
had been destroyed, or partially so,
speedily were rebuilt.

Here I must not omit one other
strange incident connected with these

One evening, nearly two years after
our encounter with the sorcerers, Dr.
Gresham and I were Bitting at the win¬
dow of his New York apartment, idly
watching the moon rise above the range
of housetops to the east of Central Park.

Suddenly I began to stare at the disk
with rapt interest. Clutching the as¬
tronomer by the sleeve, I exclaimed ex¬
citedly:

"Look there 1 Odd I never noticed it
before! The face of the Man in the
Moon is the living image of that Chinese
devil, Kwo-Sung-tao!”

“Yes!” agreed Dr. Gresham with a
shudder. “And it makes my flesh creep
even to look at it!”

Men Sing Hymn As They
Go To Death

A/TAROONED on a floating ice cake
hVA in the Missouri River, with all
hope of rescue gone, Harvey McIntosh
and his brother, Tom, of Mondamin,
Iowa, bravely sang, “Nearer My God
to Thee,” while the ice floe carried
them to a swift and certain death. Their
friends lined either side of the river,
but were unable to reach them. Night
came on, and from the darkness came
the strains of the old hymn, which
gradually grew, fainter and then ended
in silence.

THE MAN THE LAW FORGOT

(Continued from page 85)

“Here,” said he, “is a cipher. It is
the symbol of nothing, but, as a circular
pencil mark, it is still something.”

He erased every trace, of the pencil
and exhibited .the blank piece of paper.

“This,” he explained, “illustrates
your status. In human affairs, you are
a cipher with the rim rnbbed out. A
man legally dead is lees than nothing.”

VII.

T UIGI ROMANO, who had succeeded
Guisseppi in Rosina’s affections,
was among the first to hear of the abduc¬
tion.

Blazing with passion, he laid his plans
with quick decision and took the trail.
Without great difficulty, he traced the
route of the taxicab, block by block, to
its destination.

Depressed by Iris fruitless mission in
search of a marriage license, Guisseppi
was hurrying toward the building in
which Rosina was imprisoned. His eyes
were bent upon the ground in deep
thought His face was white and drawn.

Luigi stepped from the shelter of a
doorway with a sawed-off shotgun in his
hands. ...

'VX/'HEN the police arrived, a little

’ ' crowd of Italians had gathered.

They shrugged their shoulders and
spread their palms. Nobody had seen
anything; nohody had heard anything;
nobody knew anything. But one thing
was plain—the dead man, sprawled on
the sidewalk, was dead this time to stay
dead.

“0 yes,” said Attorney Malato, who
had looked after Luigi’s case, “they
arrested Luigi all tight. But they
turned him looSe. Why not? This boy
Guisseppi could not be punished by the
law, but neither could he claim in the
slightest degree the protection of the
law. Since he had no legal life, it was
no crime to kill him. He was a legal
problem, and Luigi solved it in about
the only way it could bo solved—with a
sawed-off shotgun.”-

It is often wondered why the earth is
round instead of being some other
shape. This is because of the attraction
of gravity, which tends to pull every¬
thing toward the oenter of the world.
It can be seen that even if the earth was
originally some other shape, in the
course of a few years this influence
would have pulled it into its present

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